


Fire on the Wire

by nicotinedragon



Category: Gunpoint (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 22:39:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 52,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2669033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicotinedragon/pseuds/nicotinedragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With new agents in town, Hightower seeks common ground against old enemies. Meanwhile, Conway finds himself in another quagmire of revenge, deception, weapons smuggling, and a plot to circumvent the weapons ban.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three Sheets to the Wind

The first thing I registered was the intense sunlight cooking my gin-soaked brain. Next was the intense thirst and savage pain. Finally, there was this awful ripping sound of thick fabric in the breeze magnified to a hellish degree.

I pulled myself up and my stomach immediately flipped and I nearly lost it all over my sheets. Stumbling to my feet, I realized I was still wearing the clothes I was in the night before.

What happened the night before?

I couldn't remember for the life of me and my head hurt too much to press it too much further. I nearly tripped over my shoes before coming to a stop leaning against the wall. I looked at the time on my bed stand and noticed naproxen and a bottle of water. Without once looking a gift horse in the mouth, I downed both and tossed the bottle in the trash.

Why did I smell coffee?

I looked at my mobile and saw there was a posting for a job waiting for me, or at least I thought there was.

 

 

> Hightower: Unsolicited Professional Development
> 
> Should you decide to become blackout drunk, you ought to be more selective of the company you keep.
> 
> Pay: $.02

Oh…My stomach sank lower than ever. Hightower had caught me at the worst possible moment. I wondered to myself why and how I was still alive after crossing him when I was far from my best. I sent him a text.

“How did you get this number?”

He messaged me back immediately, “From your phone.”

“Are you looking for revenge?”

“Revenge for what? Professional rivalry? No. Besides, would I offer you sound professional advice if I were going to kill you?”

“Killing me and giving me advice aren’t mutually exclusive, you know. Besides, your advice sounds more like gloating you caught me at a bad moment.”

“That’s not worth gloating over. And if I were going to kill you, I could have smothered you after you passed out drunk and it would have been written off as an accident.”

_True..._

“You didn’t contact me to give me ‘professional development’.”

“Of course I did; I may not conduct myself properly at all times, but I would never fail to point out the right direction to you. I also want to talk to you about something. I’m in your living room.”

I dropped my mobile, cursing. My skin crawled and my heart leaped into my chest.

Agent Hightower was exactly one door over and I was in no condition to face him again. I was still hungover, but now I was terrified.

I took a deep breath and gave myself a brief patdown to make myself presentable.

Rubbing my face, I tried to walk coolly into my living room, but ended up stumbling. He looked up, somewhat surprised. That awful ripping noise was getting louder.

"Afternoon," he stated matter-of-factly, speaking over the noise. Hightower sat on my couch, elbows in his lap, hands together, looking at me. If I could describe him in one word it would be this: Swarthy. If I had two, I'd clarify it to: Black Coffee. He was dressed like a waiter at a funeral and his curly dark hair was slicked back under a serviceable black newsboy cap. He was older than me, but not middle-aged.

"How the hell did you get in here?"

He raised an eyebrow, looking at me "You don't remember last night, do you?"

"Fuck, I need coffee...."

Hightower got up and walked past me; my thoroughly intoxicated body was overly hot and I actually appreciated the breeze he created by walking to the part of my apartment that had linoleum and a sink and was therefore a kitchen. He filled the mug he was using with more coffee, then topped it off with vodka, though I hadn't asked him to.

"How do you take it?"

"Black as night and sweet as sin." I muttered into my hands. Why was it so dark in here? Not that I was complaining.

"Strong as death and hotter than Hell," he replied, handing the mug to me. I took that first sip and the sweet bitterness reached up and slapped me across the face. The coffee and sugar far overpowered the vodka to the point I wouldn't have known it was in there if I hadn't seen it. I looked into the mug and saw my dark, oily reflection staring up at me. I remembered the ripping sound again and looked up, directly forward. Of course.

The sound came from the wall-sized tarp taped around the frame of the plate glass window that had been one of my walls. The very same window I had jumped through in a lapse of judgment and excitement over a new pair of trousers the night Selena Delgado died-was murdered. I had since cleaned up the glass and now I was awaiting the glazier to come by and replace the window. It had been weeks, but then again, the glazier was a busy man in this town.

"Mr. Conway?" I turned my attention to Hightower with just my eyes over the mug, still working on the coffee.

"How do you know my name?"

"...You told me." he replied, "You don't remember last night?"

"Enlighten me."

"We were at The Pink Elephant. You got cut-off and still stuck around. I carried you back."

"I remember," Very vaguely, I did. I remembered dark bricks, cigar smoke and lively jazz. I also remembered a pink neon sign in the shape of an elephant and being carried, "Why are you still here?"

"We need to talk."

“About what?”

He walked over to my coatrack where I noticed he had hung his dropshot next to mine, he was looking at my horsehead mask when he said, “There’s more agents like us in town.”

"Like us?" I wasn’t liking this ‘us’ business. I sat in my chair, put my coffee on the desk, put my hands over my eyes, and wished Hightower would just leave.

He turned to me, "At least one of them has the same equipment and works mostly in the same field. So far, all I know is that his name is Agent Boomslang and he works for Agent Coachwhip. Their area of operations is near the race track where they deal illegal weapons. This intel I have is very new and I haven't done any vetting on it, yet. I'll keep you up to date."

"Why?”

"I'm hoping you and I can come to an understanding."

“Why don’t I go to them to gang up on you?”

“They don’t work with outsiders and they don’t take seasoned agents; they’d just kill you to eliminate competition.”

I seriously wondered where Hightower got the idea that I was seasoned.

"So, you want to work together to push them out?"

"More or less," He stated plainly, "you're going to help me find them."

"I haven’t agreed to anything." I noticed he wasn’t wearing his hypertrousers.

“They’ve killed three other freelance agents in the last two weeks. I was working on getting them before they got me until that whole Intex thing went down. This may have been a good thing; now they won’t expect us to be in collusion.”

There was that ‘us’ word again.

“So these spy killers are loose and you want me to help you kill them before they kill you?”

“Us, Mr. Conway. They will kill both of us, and any other competition they come across.”

“I am too hungover for this. Also, I have no reason to believe you.”

“This is probably too much to consider for now, considering your state.” He motioned to me, “How about I buy you breakfast to make up for getting you trashed?”

“You got me drunk?” I looked between my fingers at him. I vaguely remember someone buying me drinks all night.

He shrugged, “I didn’t pour the gin down your throat. I just wanted to see where you lived and have a little professional chat. Do you always accept drinks from strangers?”

“Yes and I trust you even less now.”

“Good. Breakfast?”

The vodka/coffee mix disagreed with me and my stomach churned. The spirits that had made me such a delight and netted me a new friend demanded their payment and threatened to leap out of my mouth in the most violent way possible.

“N-No…I’m about to be sick here Mister….”I trailed off to let him finish.

“Agent or Mister Hightower’s fine. Just Hightower if you’re feeling curt.”

The wind picked up and got between the tarp and the wall, letting in flashes of intense sunshine. In the flickering daylight I noticed yellow bruises on his arms and knuckles. His clear green eyes had that sunken, reddened quality of the exhausted or perpetually drunk. He caught my eye and I looked away.

“Did your parents not give you a choice on what you were going to be when you gr-“

Suddenly, the fun I had last night leaped into my mouth. I had just enough time to get to the sink where I promptly spewed that fun all over my dirty dishes. A gin hangover was probably second only to a wine hangover, but the gin had the wine beat when it came to the awful pine-needle projectile vomit it produced. I thought for a second I was regurgitating broken glass and floor cleaner.

"Oh, Christ...," Hightower muttered, running his hands through his hair, “you all right?”

"Yeah...." I groaned between rib-breaking heaves, “Just orgasmic, buddy.”

Hightower ran the water while gently rubbing my back, “I’ll be in touch.”

He patted my shoulders and was gone.

 


	2. Cleanup

 

I woke several hours later to a buzzing in my pocket. I looked to see a posting for a mission from Rooke asking about the last mission I did for her, the one involving Gessler and that torpedo Hightower.

> Rooke: Cleanup
> 
> This is Rooke, I'm posting in the hopes you haven't skipped town yet. It's about the last mission you did for me.
> 
> Pay: $100

I typed, "I'm up."

I got a response immediately, "I wasn't aware you were asleep, did I wake you?"

"Nope, I was just playing dead."

"Sorry, listen, there's an ongoing investigation regarding the break-in at Intex Headquarters. You know, the one where almost a dozen of Gessler’s thugs were killed?”

"Oh...shit."

"Yeah, since it implicates us both, I need you to get rid of the data off the security cameras. If it could wait, I wouldn't have asked you so soon. Christ, Conway, you couldn't have made it look like an accident or something? The police are calling it the 'Intex Massacre'."

"That's a pretty neat name. Not very creative, but pretty neat.”

"Maybe you should add it to your resume."

"How many people need to die to call it a massacre? Anyway, where's all the backups?"

"Gessler wasn't one for backing up as robustly as I, so there's less running around this time."

"Oh, that's too bad. Could've really used the exercise."

I got the info and closed out of the chat client. I groaned as I rose, noticing the distinct smell of burnt coffee. The pot Hightower had made had boiled down from the poetic black night to no-nonsense weapons-grade coffee. Not wanting to waste a good cup of joe, I poured myself a mug and tried to lessen the impact with sugar, but to no avail; it tasted like a molten sugar-coated kick to throat. I downed it as quickly as I could.

I put my gear on and looked at myself in the mirror. I thought I looked pretty respectable. I nodded to myself in the mirror and took off.

* * *

 

The joint was locked down, of course. No heat, just professionals. Whoever took after Gessler wasn't even trying to keep up appearances here. He must have figured I'd be coming for the data to hide my tracks and was probably looking to bump me off.

I climbed up the wall and used the crosslink to look inside. Yup, just professionals. Professionals with weapons on an encrypted grid and the servers located in the basement. Cameras on the doors, lights, sockets, all were on the same unencrypted circuit, except for the doors leading to the basement.

It was child's play dispatching the slower professionals non-lethally, the way Rooke liked and letting myself in, the hard part was avoiding the professionals who didn't stand near wall sockets or doors. My revolver pressed into my hip as I hugged the corner where the walls and ceiling met, praying to Jesus the muscle didn't see me. My pistol pressed hard into my back as I waited for him to turn around so I could get at that wirelink. No dice.

I considered making some noise to distract him, but there wasn't any windows to break anyplace I could get to without being seen. The lackey passed right under me and I swear to God my heart leaped into my throat. I don't mind shooting somebody if it has to be done, but I knew for a fact it'd only take a minute or so to bring the heat down on me if I did. Bullets are hard to find these days unless you were a bull or hired on by a guy with money to act like one, so using one meant with certainty I'd come up short when I really needed it.

I heard a door click uselessly directly below me to my right. The person knocked. The muscle tried to open it, but that door might as well have been a wall with what I did with it. I scrambled along past them, dropping quietly and took control of the blue circuit. I dashed out the back as soon as the professional got the door open and turned around.

I heard the professional try to yell something at me. I jumped onto the wall just as I felt a bullet whizz under me.

_Shit._

That angry hornet sound was about the worst.

I was on the roof as soon as the professional was at the door, unseen. I could hear him muttering to someone, then walk off. I jacked the elevator then got back inside from the second story down to the basement and the rest was a cakewalk.

As I turned to get back in the elevator and make my escape I heard a weapon click behind me. Not waiting to find out who it was, I ducked into the elevator and mashed the 'close-door' button. Whoever it was managed to get halfway in before I kicked him in the face and got the door closed. I heard a loud kick and cursing from outside as I rode up. As soon as I was out, I heard the frantic dashing of someone climbing the stairs to get at me. I was gone before they saw me.

* * *

 

Because any respectable spy knows better than to head directly home after a job, I flopped down at the bar located in a basement where I found Hightower, the Pink Elephant. He wasn't there. I had changed in a subway bathroom and wore modestly respectable clothes with my work clothes in a suitcase. I could have been a businessman from out of town enjoying a beer. I listened to the piano while I got in contact with Rooke.

"Looks like you got lucky."

"What can I say? Ducking into elevators is a specialty of mine."

"Right, well, if you're up to it, there's a second backup facility not far from where you are now."

"How do you know where I am now?"

"It's a specialty of mine."

Right. I checked my watch and considered my chances of finishing and making it back before morning.

"Can it wait until tomorrow? It’s almost morning."

"I really don't think so."

"I was hoping for some beauty sleep."

"You can sleep during the day. I think you can handle this. I'll throw in some extra cash if you do it tonight."

Sold.

"Give me directions. I’ll sleep when I’m dead."

 

* * *

 

I was done just as the sun rose. I had tried to take this as easily as possible, which never worked, of course and I wanted nothing more than to crash in my bed. I made a cover stop for coffee and donuts before taking a walk around the park for some air. I passed Hightower, who looked as tired as I did, sitting on a park bench, clutching his face. I figured he must have been drinking or was in some sort of emotional distress until I saw the blood. He was trying to keep it off his clothes for whatever reason, as if the stains would show on all that black and gray he wore. I approached him.

"Hell happened to you?"

"Morning, Mr. Conway."

"Looks like you broke your nose."

With a grunt, he reset it himself. The sound of wet bone twisting and cracking made me wince. When I did it myself, it wasn't so bad, but to see someone else do it? Terrible. He washed his face in a water fountain, his face was already puffy and bruising up.

"You get in a fight?"

He scoffed, snorting a thick glob of blood and mucus into the drain. He spat, then checked with his tongue for loose teeth.

“Was it those dreaded spy hunters?”

“Yeah, actually it was. I managed to get away before he could kill me.”

“How’d they get the jump on you?” I was legitimately curious.

“He have some sort of device that makes them invisible on crosslink schematics and disrupts electronic signals within a certain radius.”

“That’s…alarming.” I was wondering where I could get such a thing.

“You are not taking me seriously.” He shot me this nasty look.

“I just fail to see how it’s my problem. You tell me they’re after the both of us, but I don’t see any indicators. For all I know, you’re the bad guy and I should be siding with them.”

Hightower scoffed and shook his head, “First, there’s no good or bad guys in our line of work. Second, like it or not, Mr. Conway, we’re in this together.”

He breezed past me.

"There’s that ‘us’ word again," I replied to his back. I turned and walked the other way, wondering what kind of trouble he was getting in.

 

* * *

 

I awoke to being thrown into my bedroom wall.

"This if for Krait, fucker!"

I threw myself from the wall at the intruder, catching his jaw with my fist. I shoved him onto my bed, punching at his face with all the fury of a man rudely awakened.

I was suddenly in the air, hoisted by a huge man. He tossed me through my door and I landed on my coffee table, shattering it. The guy that tossed me kicked me in the ribs with must have been a size fifteen, steel-toed boot. I noticed he was wearing hypertrousers with a green tint. And the kicks kept coming. His friend lifted me by my shoulders to shove me into my bathroom, where my chin connected with the sink.

"You want ta stay down, Hightower." The man had a thick accent that may have been English or Australian or Scottish.

I felt fingers grab my hair and suddenly my face was in the toilet. They were drowning me.

"Wait a minute..." Big guy trailed off. My lungs were burning as I struggled. Someone turned on the lights.

"This innit Hightower..." I felt Face Punch Guy lift my head out of the toilet and dump me on the floor. I stared dazed his face framed in the harsh white light. I choked. I could here big guy look through my stuff.

"Well, fuck, it ain't. Who the fuck are you?" Face punch guy asked. They had a thick southern accent.

"Who the fuck are you?!" I demanded.

"Fuck's this?" Big guy was holding my horse-head mask.

"Clearly, you are not a jocky." I deadpanned. He dropped it, then punted it down the hallway.

Big guy pointed at me, "You tell Hightower that we're looking for him." Then he punched me in the face.

"Ow! Why?!"

“Fer breakin’ in ta Intex.”

They left. I stood up. I walked through my apartment to survey the damage. It looked like a tornado had gone through. Then I sat down on my thankfully intact sofa and went looking for Hightower.

 

* * *

 

A few nights later I was standing at the front desk Sunset Lanes. Hightower told me to meet him here, without equipment.

"Okay, sir, you are on lane six. Shoes are already paid for, I just need your size." I told the lady my size and was rewarded with some dubious red and mustard clown shoes.

"Thanks."

Hightower had apparently started without me, and brought his own equipment for bowling. He was wearing a black second-hand bowling shirt from the team "Living on a Spare" and his own bowling shoes. On top of his head was his black newsboy hat. He was facing away from me, holding a red and black bowling ball.

There was a bucket of beer at the table. I helped myself to one.

While I was changing shoes, Hightower stepped up carefully to the lane, rolled, then picked up the spare.

"What did I fucking say?" He deadpanned.

"They came into my apartment, kicked the shit out of me, called me Hightower, and tried to drown me in the toilet until they realized I wasn't."

Hightower walked toward me, his hard green eyes staring directly into me, "You already told me that over the phone." His entire toffee-colored face was hard. This man had hardboiled danger oozing from him.

I made a helpless gesture, "That's what happened."

"Well, what'd they look like? Your turn."

"They had the same equipment we do." I picked up a bowling ball and rolled it right into the gutter.

Hightower leaned back, sipping beer, "I figured as much. And you already told me."

I was getting annoyed and only knocked down a single pin.

"Hey, why are we doing this in a bowling alley?"

"The sound of balls striking pins drowns our conversation out. Also, I like hurling dangerously heavy spheres at inanimate objects. It's soothing." He got another strike.

"Right, well, I actually came here to get information out of you." Hightower stepped off the lane and into my personal space, staring me down.

"Well?" He asked. I wasn't sure if he was barely restrained from hurting me, or if he was just like that with everyone. I stood my ground.

"Who were those people and what did you do to get them so mad?"

I was playing a dangerous game completely unrelated to bowling and I knew it. Hightower knew dozens and maybe hundreds of ways to make my life nasty, brutish, and short.

He continued to stare into my face, "The big guy was Boomsling. The other person was probably Sawscale. Anyway, you were right about them being after me personally, but bumping you off is just business to them. Your roll.”

“Who’s Krait?” I knocked down eight and had to contend with the seven-ten split. Then I rolled a gutterball.

He tilted his head and folded his arms, “Where’d you hear that name?”

He picked up the spare.

“I should say, ‘who _was_ Krait’, since they wanted revenge, and you don’t seem like the type to leave people breathing.”

Hightower smiled, “One of their own. I bumped her off for Gessler;” he sat down, “I would have done it for free, though.”

“Is that the only reason they’re after you?”

“Of course not.” He didn’t elaborate. Bowling was more fun than I thought. I rolled a strike.

"How the hell did they mistake me for you?"

Hightower shrugged, "They saw similar equipment and just went with it?"

I had a suspicion that he knew more, but I let it slide.

"What the hell am I supposed to do? This isn't supposed to be my problem."

"It has been your problem since they moved into East Point. I will help you."

This meant I was expected to help him. I folded my arms.

"I still haven’t agreed to anything." I was painfully aware of my lack of equipment, save for the pistol hidden in my rain jacket.

“They already know where you live and what you do. They probably suspect us working together, so we’ve lost our advantage. You are completely out of your element. You need my help.”

He walked up to the lane and rolled a strike. I rolled a seven and picked up the spare.

"Yeah, no, I wasn't here to start a partnership."

"I didn't send them to trash your apartment if you're looking for sympathy."

"Well, I'm not wild about working with one of Fritz's stooges and Delgado's murderer. I just came here for information." I changed into my shoes quickly.

"I don't hold a grudge over that Intex thing."

I picked up his bucket of beer and headed for the exit, "I do."

 


	3. Freelance

 

> Mayfield: Racetrack
> 
> I need help investigating a possible illegal weapons trafficking hotspot.
> 
> Pay: $120

I saw Hightower again while on a job investigating fixed races at the horse track. Mayfield didn't trust his people so he sent his ace, me. I saw a lot of foreigners there, mostly Japanese, and plenty of Mayfield's men. This was definitely one of the nicer places in the city, which made one wonder where the money was coming from. Revenue from the bets couldn’t have been the only thing.

In addition to my normal gear, I was fitted with a camera in my hat operated by a button in my coat pocket so I take pictures. I wasn't sure what Mayfield was going to do with them, as the evidence was inadmissible, but he was paying me, so what did I care?

Hightower stopped me right before I got in line to place my bet. His face had gone back to normal, except his nose was slightly crooked. He kept the fracture in place with a bandage. In full equipment, he sent my heart racing. I remembered his seven-story body slam.

"You have no idea what you're doing."

I looked at him askance, "How would you know?"

He smiled slightly, "You're an easy mark, that's why. Who are you betting on?"

Oh, he was talking about horses.

"Straight wager, across the board for...." I scanned the program, "Englishman's Daughter." I found the fact he called me an 'easy mark' insulting and funny at the same time.

"Put your money on A Horse Called Intrepid," His face was serious. I wasn't, "Odds are three to two, so you'll get double your money back if she wins, which she will."

"How do you know?" I got in line.

"I know my women." He replied, "I could explain what those little numbers next to their names mean, but I think I'd bore you."

"Yeah, you would."

"Nice hat, by the way."

“What are you doing here?”

Hightower looked at me like I was crazy, “Placing bets, of course. What are you doing here?”

“Placing a bet.”

He gave me this nasty grin, like he was showing his teeth, “If you’re looking to hit pay dirt, I suggest you check out the horses in the stables. Not now, of course, they’re already moved. But later on tonight.”

As it turned out, Hightower did know his women, at least his mares. I got eighteen bucks off the race; he got four hundred. I didn't bet after that, but I couldn't leave so I tried to get back at my job. We sat together in the loosest sense of the word; it was more like we kept bumping into each other. Every time he saw me, Hightower handed me a mint julep mixed with gin instead of bourbon while he drank with me. Since he was buying all the drinks, I assumed he was still placing bets. To be honest, he sort of worried me. What was his angle?

I couldn’t find much to implicate anybody, so I sat down and watched people.

“You’re not going to find anything here.” Highttower sat down next to me.

“What makes you think I’m on a job?”

“For a spy, you’re not very subtle.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“I’m a security specialist, not a spy.” Hightower clarified.

“What’s the difference?”

“You hack things. I kill people.”

“What’s with all the drinks? Are we on a date?”

Hightower looked as though he’d never considered it, “I suppose we are. I like seeing you drunk. You’re funny when you drink.”

“Tell me the truth. Are those spy hunters here?”

“Yes.”

“Can you point them out?”

“I will if I see them.”

“If they’re spy hunters, then why are they running an illegal weapons market?”

“Not all of them are spy hunters and spies. They have logistics people, financiers, analysts, managers…they’re a completely self-sustaining organization.”

“Because they don’t take outsiders.”

“Right.”

“You know a lot about them.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“I do my research.”

“I thought you weren’t a hacker.”

“I’m not very good at it.” He pushed a drink toward me, “Don’t worry so much about me. Worry about the people after your job.”

“Why are they moving into East Pointe?”

“Because East Point was built off of weapons, it’s the easiest town to try to pressure state lobbyists to overturn the weapon’s ban. A lot of people are out of jobs here.”

“Yeah….” I fiddled with my drink. I noticed Hightower looking at me, then he looked back at the racetrack, “Why the mint julips?”

“We’re at a horserace. You can’t go a horserace without mint julips.” He sipped one himself.

I was starting to have a hard time focusing.

“If they make money off illegal arms trafficking, then why would they want lethal weapons to go legitimate again?”

“Some of their members stand to make a lot of money on selling weapons to a now nearly empty market.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“It helps me.”

“Who would make money by dealing weapons legitimately?”

“The organization used to be funded by playing both sides to rival weapons manufacturers. Also, if weapons are legal again, that means more funding for police, who wouldn’t need to privatize, since they could afford better equipment. So that means more private security companies filling the gap.”

“There are a lot of plainclothes police here….”

“Exactly. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were non-members working from the inside of the police department, trying to become made men. There’s a lot of money to be made in either overturning the ban or working around it.”

I looked at him, wondering why he was feeding intel.

“It’s just a theory.” He shrugged.

By the evening, I was pushed into a cab and sent back. I mulled over what Hightower had said earlier, about the stables. Why would he be fully suited up if he wasn’t on a…?

I snapped out of my confusion.

“That sneaky bastard…. That motherfucker!” I punched the dashboard, sobering up.

“Hey!” The cabbie shot me the nastiest look.

“Turn this cab around, take me back to the racetrack.”

“Meter’s still running.” The cabbie grumbled as he turned the car around.

 

* * *

 

I ran into the stables. It was nearly pitch black in there. Hightower had given me a hint, then tried to bump me off the mission. Either Mayfield double-booked a mission (highly unlikely), Hightower was playing some sort of joke (he didn’t seem like the type), or he had successfully stalled me.

Looking around the stables, I found exactly what Mayfield was looking for: Pistols with the palm readers stripped off, like my own, buried under the hay where the horses were kept, protected by pelican cases.

I heard a scream. The horses reared. I ran toward the sound, looking down at the crosslink schematic to guide my way. The radar showed two people in the office where the scream came from.

I kicked down the door, which went flying toward Hightower. In a flash, he jumped over the door, kicked off the ground, and came straight for me. I jumped under him, catching him in the middle and cancelling our momentum. A lady in white, likely the source of the scream, ran from the office. We tumbled to the ground, but I managed to get on top. The look on his face was terrifying: completely blank.

I punched him once, which was enough. I stood up and looked on the crosslink screen. The woman had already cleared the stables and was running for the road. I looked around the office to see a laptop on the desk.

Lucky me.

Hightower groaned; I grabbed that laptop and ran for my life.

So, I hope I can be forgiven to those thugs getting the jump on me again.

I felt the back of someone’s hand on my chest, and suddenly the huge dude, Boomslang, the one that shoved my head in the toilet was right on top of me.

“I swear to Christ you are one cheeky cunt, mate.”

I finally got a good look at him in the morning light as I backed off. Huge, black hair, gray eyes, boxer’s nose. I noticed it looked a little smashed in.

“You got a little blood on…” I pointed to my nose.

He smacked me across the face. I immediately whipped out my pistol. He backed off.

“Oh, now you’re a big man!” He sneered, pointing with his middle finger, “You want to stay out of our business or prepare for a proper rumble so bad it’ll make your nan sore just hearing about it.”

“I’ll decide what jobs I’ll take.” I said braver than I felt.

“Did Hightower set you up to remove security footage from Intex, there lad? You must be right sick in the head to be dealing with a nutter like that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You were both at the races today, being buddy-buddy.”

“Look, I don’t know what his game is either, all right?” I glanced around to the subway tunnel. I started backing toward it, “Whatever grudge you have with him is between you two. Leave me out of it.”

Boomslang grinned, “Life is short, mate. And it’ll get a lot shorter if you keep in this line of work. Stick to chasing cheating spouses and leave this game to us.”

“Stop following me.” I dashed into the tunnel, jumping over the turnstile. The entire way back, I was terrified that either Boomslang or Hightower was following me.

I hadn’t even made it to my apartment when I received a message.

 

> Coachwhip: I’d like to thank you for saving me.
> 
> Please accept this money as thanks for your help. I’d like to meet you to clear the air. I’m sure our mutual friend has said some rather unflattering things about us.
> 
> Pay: $500
> 
>  

I called her back.

“How’d you find me?”

“Agent Boomslang told me. Please let me apologize on his and Agent Sawscale’s behalf. It seems that in our haste to capture Agent Hightower, we were off by a single apartment.”

_Off by a single apartment?_

“Yeah, about Hightower….”

“It’s fine. I realize you two are not in collusion. I’d like to meet in person if that’s all right.”

“Fine by me.”

“One more thing: You wouldn’t happen to know what happened to my laptop, would you?”

“I’ll return it.”

“Thank you.”

She had us meet at Eagle Point, a restaurant on top of the highest point in the city, which offered a gorgeous view of the park and lake. I saw her sitting outside, looking into the distance toward Lake Marie. I stopped short to study her. She was the embodiment of white. White suit, white hair, gray eyes. She was probably in her forties or fifties. I took a seat beside her.

She turned to me, smiling, “Mr. Conway!”

She offered her hand. I took it. She leaned back to get a good look at me, “In the dark, I can see the mistake. Especially if they caught you asleep.”

I thought I saw Boomslang in disguise out of the corner of my eye, but let it slide.

“Hightower and I look nothing alike.”

“No, but I can see a resemblance. Get anything you like, my treat.”

I ordered a martini and a sandwich. My drunk was starting to wear off.

She sipped a bellini, “They didn’t know what Agent Hightower looked like, and you fit the description we had of him. Good work dispatching him.”

“Only I didn’t. He took off.”

She rested her head on her fist, with her elbow on the table, “Then I suppose this can be quite the opportunity for you; I’d like you to take care of him. Permanently.”

I frowned, “I’m not a hitman.”

“But you’ve done similar work in the past.”

“That was incidental. I’m not about to try and muscle in on his turf.”

Coachwhip sat back, “Agent Hightower is a dangerous lunatic with a grudge against my organization. Unlike him, we’re not hurting anybody with our business. We’re only making sure that good people are getting the protection they deserve. Everyone has a right to defend themselves, don’t you agree?”

“Sure, and illegal weapons traffickers only ever deal with people that can pass a background check.”

Coachwhip laughed, “If you can manage to bring Agent Hightower down during one of your missions, I’ll be willing to give you a position within our organization. The codename ‘Diamondback’ has been vacant for too long.”

“Hightower told me that you don’t take seasoned outsiders.”

Coachwhip gave me this patronizing smile, “If we didn’t, Mr. Conway, how would we deal with turnover?"

Good point.

“That’s a tempting offer, ma’am, but I prefer to work freelance.”

“I understand. But there are benefits to working with an agency. Give it some thought.”

I set her laptop on the table. I had already made a digital image.

“Thank you, so much.

“Thanks for lunch, ma’am.” And I left.

On the way back to the subway, I considered Coachwhip’s words. It wasn’t as if I owed Hightower anything, despite his attempts to curry my favor. He certainly had an interesting way of going about it. Next, he clearly had a grudge, but why? If Hightower wasn’t going to leave me alone, and he probably wasn’t, then I had to get to the bottom of this.

Also, I wasn’t a hitman.

When I got back to my apartment, I looked at the number on the door. If those two had been off by a single apartment, then Hightower had stayed in this building. I thought about the layout of the building. We were right next to one of Rooke’s offices. The one where Delgado had worked before Hightower had killed her.

I brewed a pot of coffee, poured the hot pot back into the coffee maker and then brewed it again over fresh grounds for a double shot of coffee, then looked out the window into the Rooke office.

The glaziers had finally showed up, which I had to stay awake for to watch the people working. They asked me how I broke the first window. I told them to butt off. I had a perfect view of Delgado’s office from my apartment, so if Hightower was casing her office, he would have wanted one with a similar vantage point. That meant the apartment directly above mine, which was vacant, as far as I knew. I finished my coffee and walked upstairs.

Whoever occupied that apartment had disabled the keypads to the door and operated it with an old-fashioned lock and key. From the schematics, the place was empty. I picked the lock using a bobby pin and nearly opened the door wide open until I saw the fishing line. Using a small knife, I cut the line and opened the door carefully. On the other end of the line was a grenade. Christ.

The place was somehow both nearly empty and a complete wreck. Chinese takeout boxes and paper everywhere. A lone mattress sat in a corner while a metal folding chair kept an old rotary phone company. From the looks of things, nobody had been in here for a month, which meant that Hightower hadn’t been back since he killed Delgado. I wondered if he was going to return for the grenade at any point. From this apartment, I had an even better view of the office from here. If I had a telescope, I’d be able to pick her off with a sniper rifle.

I returned to my apartment for some overdue rest. I spent the rest of the day in a dead sleep.

 


	4. Rhapsody in Blue

I woke up to an interesting job offer.

>    Anonymous: Seeking freelance intelligence professional for field work. My sources state you’re good.
> 
>    Pay: $830

Okay, so it was the pay that interested me the most. I answered the text and got another text response immediately. Their profile icon was blacked out.

"Have I reached Mr. Conway?"

"Depends, who is this?" I typed back.

"The following is intercepted communications for a prototype called XRECP-15."

His reply was a chain of emails detailing some sort of firearm-sounding weapon, I didn’t get much out of it except for the idea that not everybody involved was sure about it.

My prospective employer continued, “It is essentially a pre-charged air gun that fires arrows with a pump-action mechanism for reloading. Air guns are not regulated federally nor are they regulated by most state or local governments.”

"So, it’s a legal lethal weapon. Good for them."

"A quiet, legal lethal weapon. This is intercepted communications for its nonlethal brother, the XRECP-14."

Second verse, same as the first; this version fired blow darts with a chemical payload. The chemical itself sounded nasty. You lost all your balance and started hallucinating. It also gave you the hangover from hell.

"So, what’s the problem? You work for Intex?"

"Not at this time; I need you to break into a TX Fabrications lab and steal the schematics for me."

"All right. Where am I going?"

"Across the street of the Fitzgerald Theatre on the corner of Novichok and Holiday."

"Got it. You still haven’t told me who you are."

"Be careful. I cased the place myself, security is tight."

"Thanks for the tip, Mr. Blank."

I disconnected.

He wasn't joking about the security. I barely made it out with my skin intact. I had the feeling my employer had over watch on the situation because I had a grade before I even left the station.

He contacted me as soon as I left the underground, "Nice work."

"Were you watching me the entire time?"

"Naturally. You have quite the flair for slapstick."

I got a text message from my bank; the money had been deposited.

"Listen, I don't like working for anonymous. I'm not going to be played for a fool."

"Duly noted; I will properly introduce myself if I've need of your services again."

He disconnected. I frowned. If he was a fellow spy, this could get needlessly complicated for me.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, I ran into Hightower while at the Pink Elephant. He was at the piano, playing ‘Rhapsody in Blue’. It weirded me out to see him working at something other than making my job hard. He apparently had all the parts memorized and translated so that the entire thing could be played on the piano. I considered the idea that he was following me.

The Pink Elephant was a few lumens too dark and a few decibels too loud and too far away to be terribly popular, but it enjoyed a modest following mostly among the middle-aged and the young with delusions of sophistication. The wait staff and bartenders were talented and friendly enough to make the venue a good place to get blasted any night of the week, especially when you were a musician of a dying genre and a spy with an axe to grind.

I ordered him a beer, which was placed on the lid of the piano.

The waitress gave him a look and pointed me out. I gave him a nod and a smile.

After the mandatory quitting time at midnight due to noise ordinance I sat beside him.

“You play piano as a day job?”

“It’s a hobby. Sometimes they hire me to play if their house band doesn’t show up. It’s a good cover.”

“Good idea. Some say that the Pink Elephant is both run and frequented by sleazy, shady characters.”

Hightower covered his mouth in mock surprise, “No!”

“Professional assassin, spy, and piano player. You’re quite the polymath.”

“I used to play pro until I got a better job. Better pay, better hours. Worse fellow workers.”

I smiled, “Better fellow workers. Music is brutal.”

“There’s a poker game in the back, you in?”

“What’s the buy in?”

“I think they’re starting with twenty dollars.”

“Sure.”

Unfortunately, someone didn’t know how to play poker and had the idea to play Cancellation Hearts instead. They put the jokers in as the zeros of clubs and diamonds and put Hightower and me together.

I opened the game with the deuce and we played in relative silence. Because they were there, we played with chips; each player contributed a chip per card and the winner of the hand took the chips unless they took a penalty card, in which case the pile was added to the next hand.

Hightower and I were the only ones still drinking and the look on his face told me he was either counting cards or using statistics to estimate what everyone else had because he started picking up hearts every chance he got. Someone played the queen of spades and told his partner to keep it out of Hightower’s hands. He ended up shooting the moon anyway.

They got angry and we finally switched to seven twenty-seven, which reminded me of when I was in high school. This time, we were playing for money.

After about the fourth hand, I was getting destroyed. Suddenly, it dawned on me, and after the sixth hand, I had it figured out.

I narrowed my eyes, “This is a marked deck.”

“What makes you say that?” Hightower asked.

I looked at his hand and said, “You have an eight and two aces.” He nodded.

“And you,” I said to the dealer, “Have a queen, an ace, and an eight.”

The dealer was indigent, “How do you know?”

“The deck is marked.” I replied, “When the deck is assembled in order from aces to kings, the gear design in the back will animate like a flip-book. You just need to know what the gear position is to know what the face values of the cards are.”

Hightower stood up, “You sneaky bastards….”

The dealer flipped the table at me, taking me to the floor. Then the real fun started. Hightower kept his hands close in and used kicks to show those punks a lesson. I was content with punching people until they didn’t get up anymore. Hightower grabbed my hand and lead me out the back into an ally.

“We should probably avoid this place for awhile.” Hightower folded his arms.

“That was fun.” I lit up a cigarette. Hightower shot me a disapproving look, then took out a flask and had a quick drink.

“Now what?”

“Drink some more?”

“I got another place.” 

 

* * *

 

 

We found ourselves at a place called ‘Coco’s’, a ritzy place bathed in warm lights that was basically the opposite of the Pink Elephant. The doors were those mirrored revolving type I hadn’t seen in a while. The walls were white and the furniture was deep red velvet. Everything was lit up by stage lights in red, orange and yellow. It was hot in here.

Hightower and I were sitting at the poker table. Jesus, this guy liked card games. I considered the possibility that the Coachwhip and the others could just as easily been leg breakers sent after him for a gambling debt of some sort. As soon as I finished one of those huge long island iced tea drinks, he had another drink in front of me, the same as the one he had.

I folded out and looked into the glass Hightower handed me. It looked like antifreeze.

“…The hell is this?”

“Absinthe.” He shuffled the cards and dealt without looking at me.

“Doesn’t this shit make you hallucinate?”

“No, alcohol poisoning makes you hallucinate.”

“I think Van Gogh cut his ear off on this stuff….”

Hightower smiled, “If it scares you-“I cut him off by shooting the entire damned thing. My face screwed up and wouldn’t come unscrewed. Absinthe tasted like licorice-flavored death.

Hightower finally took his eyes off the card game to stare at me like I slapped him. I started to notice everyone else staring at me.

“Conway, that stuff’s one-eighty proof! You’re not supposed to drink it straight.”

“It’s awful!”

He ordered me another and did this weird ritual with mixing it with sugar and ice water. It still tasted like licorice-flavored death.

The rest of the players started to shift in and out of focus and I couldn’t understand what they were saying. The green fairy boiled inside my gut and I suddenly found myself well past my limit.

I must have blacked out after that.

All I remember were flashes of perceptions and slipping into a quasi-trance state. I remembered some violence that I was too intoxicated to take part in, but may have involved Hightower. Then I was at the train station, with Hightower trying to prop the two of us up, then bed.

I came to in front of the toilet sans shirt and shoes, tired and still drunk as hell, violently spewing whatever poison I had ingested.

"Hightower, I think I was been drugged." I managed to slur between heaves. It really felt like I was never going to stop.

A sigh, “The only drugging you got was the one you did to yourself.”

I washed my mouth out with Hightower's support and blacked out again.

 

* * *

 

 

I woke up alone in my apartment with a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water on the dresser by the bed sometime in the late afternoon. I remembered Hightower taking me home, but he was nowhere to be found. Just as well, I suppose. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be his drinking buddy.

To the green fairy’s credit, absinthe was a clean burn; no hangover to speak of, no toxins after the initial purge. I actually felt like I’d slept eight hours and felt perfectly fine. I made coffee and sat down to read the news. I got a few job offers in the meantime, mostly commercial stuff and Mayfield requesting some investigative work. But there was one job that really interested me. When I saw it, I dropped my phone. I had to read and reread it again and again to make sure it said what I thought it did:

                Hightower: I need a partner for a series of objectives requiring cooperation.                                      

                Pay: $830

My very own bete noir had a lot of nerve to try and hire me. I answered his post immediately.

“What’s with the money? Are you really trying to hire me for something?”

“Yes. I need your assistance and you specifically stated that you wouldn’t accept any work from me unless I told you who I was.”

So, Mr. Blank was another spy. And that spy was Hightower. Holy shit was this guy bizarre.

“Your name is not Agent Hightower.”

“Yes, it is. My Christian name is Agent and my surname is Hightower; my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Hightower, did not give me a choice in what I was going to be when I grew up.”

“That’s…actually pretty funny.”

“Thanks. If I told you my legal name, you’d have no idea who I was.”

“So, you’re outsourcing your spy work?”

“The first objective was a test. This one requires cooperation. So, yes.”

“Why me?”

“None of the other agents I’ve tried were able to do what you did.”

“The other agents including Boomslang and Coachwhip? What makes you think I’ll cooperate with you?”

“I’m paying you. And no, I would never consider them for employment. We want each other dead.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I will weep softly over my carefully laid plans, my heart rendered unmendable.”

I smiled, “I’d hate to see a man cry; tell me what you need done.”

“I’m going to steal the prototype XRECP-15 from TX Fabrications. I will do this by entering their lab during normal business hours. The vault where the lab is placed is locked down from the outside at 2100 hours. Given the general size of the lab, I estimate I will have a few hours’ worth of air to get what I need done. You will break into the vault to let me out at no later than midnight, otherwise I will suffocate and you will not be paid.”

“Why don’t you just crosslink the building to let yourself out?”

“There’s nothing to crosslink inside the vault to let myself out.”

“You’re taking a pretty big risk if you’re trusting me to let you out before the air runs out. What if I want to be rid of you?”

“Because you haven’t tried to hunt me down. Therefore, you’re either afraid of me, you don’t care since you got Gessler, or we’re drinking buddies.”

“Why do you keep plying me with alcohol?”

“Why do you keep accepting drinks from me? I’d never go on a cooperative mission without seeing my potential partner drunk first. For security purposes, at no time will we actually see each other face-to-face. You will crosslink the vault to let me out at the emergency exit on the eastern side. I will then take an over-watch position across the street while you remove all security footage from the security cameras and replace them with footage showing that we were never there. You have to work from east to west and exit out of the western entrance into the subway station; I will take another train.” Hightower could type really fast. I was starting to understand how he avoided detection the night Selena was killed.

“How’d we get back last night?”

“Subway system and a lot of luck. We were pretty messed up.”

“And any other security?”

“I’m not expecting any personal present, if that’s what you’re asking. If there is any, make sure there are no witnesses. I want no trace.”

“You’re a pretty intense guy, you know that?”

“Yes. I will contact you later regarding the dead drop location for the fake data and start time for the mission.”

Hightower disconnected.

 


	5. Snakebite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: violence, gore, blood

Hightower had me start at 2300, which gave me an hour to rewire the building to let him out. He must have been a pretty trusting guy under all that pretense about security to let me be the one that prevented him from suffocating. Unless this was just a test, like last time.

I got a message from Hightower almost as soon as I was on the roof, “The prototypes aren’t here; be careful.”

So, his half of the mission was a failure, but if I wanted to get paid, I had to get him out. I opened the crosslink application on the mobile and made arrangements to get myself in via security camera. Once inside, I wiretapped into the vault doors and let Hightower out. From the image on my mobile, I saw only him and myself, silhouettes against the schematics. I started to replace the security camera data, working my way out.

“Hey!” A big voice startled the hell out of me and I ducked into the next room, sticking to the ceiling. Why didn’t this guy show up on the crosslink?

_“He has some sort of device that makes them invisible on crosslink schematics and disrupts electronic signals within a certain radius.”_

From my hiding place I watched. Tan dropshot, green hypertrousers. Boomslang.

“I’m out of the vault; wrap it up and get out of there.” Hightower messaged me, “And thanks for not leaving me to suffocate or turning me over to the police.”

“Boomslang is here.”

“Fuck the cameras, fuck the weapons, fuck everything. Get the fuck out of there.”

“He’s right on top of me. I’m trapped.”

“Hold on.”

An alarm went off on the other side of the building. I heard Boomslang take off toward the sound, giving me time to run for it. I quietly opened the door and booked it toward the stairs. Unfortunately, this made a lot of noise. I dashed out of the stairwell and bolted toward the elevator. I swear some of the buildings I broke into were _designed_ to make my job harder.

“You looking for this?”

_Oh…shit._

Boomslang was on the other side of the room with what looked like a harpoon gun. I looked back and drew my pistol, trying to hold him at gunpoint while I ran backwards to the elevator.

It didn’t work.

I think we fired at almost the exact same time. I missed.

He didn’t.

I staggered back a bit, not believing I was actually hit. No time. I dashed into the elevator and hit the emergency stop button. Boomslang knocked on it.

The arrow cut in every direction I moved. I felt it digging around my chest, carving up bone. I couldn't pull it out without ripping apart my ribs and muscle. I don't think it hit my lung, but it was sticking out under my collarbone, beside my shoulder.

I pulled out my mobile and messaged Hightower.

“hit”

“hit bad”

I was leaving a blood trail a blind man could follow; I was going to bleed to death before I left the building. I took the elevator down to the ground floor and stumbled against the wall. Christ, this was bad.

I heard the mobile fall to the ground and Hightower message me back. The world lost color and shorted out like an old television. I felt my body go horizontal, but the impact didn’t hurt at all.

Boomslang was standing over me.

His voice was full of mock concern, “What did I fucking say, mate? Nothing good was ever going come from muscling in on our turf. And now, well….” He shrugged, “It’s lights out.”

He raised the prototype to his shoulder and gave me a little wave, “Ta ta.”

And then the world exploded into glass as Agent Hightower threw himself through a window and right at Boomslang, knocking them both to the ground. The harpoon gun clattered to the ground beside my head, went off, burying another arrow into the floor, which caused the weapon itself to bounce into the ceiling, back to the ground, fire a third arrow into the wall, and out the window.

“Long time, no see….” Boomslang hissed.

“Boomslang….”He spat the ‘boom’ and hissed the ‘sl’ and growled the last little bit.

“I see you’re still as radiant and delightful as always.”

I watched Hightower try to strangle Boomslang in a cross- collar choke.

“Normally, I’d do this very quickly, but because of my partner’s pain and suffering, I’m going to draw this out.”

Boomslang grabbed Hightower’s collar, and rolled them both so that he was on top. Then he started punching the hell out of him. Hightower threw his fingers into Boomslang’s face, gouging his eyes. Boomslang reeled, clutching his face, which Hightower head-butted.

Using the hypertrousers, Hightower tackled Boomslang into the ceiling, then jumped away. Boomsling collided with the floor, stunned. I saw Hightower reach for a weapon.

Boomslang started laughing nastily. Blood was pouring from his nose, which he lapped up, “Your partner’s about to bleed out, mate. You going kill me or get him to hospital?”

“Hightower….” I groaned. I really wasn’t sure if he would pick saving me over whacking Boomslang.

“Oh…shit….” He looked back at Boomslang, then at me, as if considering. He kneeled over me, pressing on my wound. I screamed.

“Yeah, I know, buddy. Try to keep it together. We’re getting out of here.” He grabbed my mobile and stuffed it into his pocket. Boomslang kept right on laughing.

“You have a heart after all.” He sneered.

Using a free hand and a foot, he folded me up and hoisted me over his shoulder and I blacked out. At the rate I was going, I was going to bleed out in about five minutes.

I woke up to legendary pain, screaming.

Hightower was talking to someone, driving either his or someone else’s car. Probably someone else’s, the driver-side window was smashed out. After that shot I fired, it wasn’t as if we could take the subway.

“A transfusion, definitely. I’m O negative; use me.”

“I can’t believe one fucking arrow could do this to somebody!” I screamed.

“That’s kind of the point of arrows!” He was louder than usual.

I grabbed at the shaft, trying to pull it out. He actually turned around while driving to grab my hand, “Don’t fuck with it, I got a hold of Rooke, okay? We’re headed to your apartment.”

He offered his right hand and kept the left on the steering wheel. I clutched at it and squeezed.

“I ain’t gonna fucking make it there, man!”

“Oh? I didn’t know you were a doctor! Tell me, where’d you go to medical school?” His voice was getting louder, panicked.

I growled through my teeth, “I’m not a fucking doctor….”

“Oh, you’re not? So, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” He was shouting, “Now, Rooke’s a goddamned doctor and she’s gonna be there to fix you up and you’re gonna be okay!”

“…You got a hold of Rooke?”

“You’re gonna be okay! Say that you’re gonna be okay!”

I groaned.

“Say the fucking words, ‘I’m gonna be okay’!”

Weakly: “I’m gonna be okay….” The world was starting to fade out. He must have felt my hand go limp because he squeezed it.

“You’re gonna be okay!”

Even softer: “I’m gonna be okay….I’m going to be okay….”

I closed his eyes and he jerked the wheel and swerved. My eyes popped open.

“Everything’s going all weird, man….” He slurred.

“We’re almost there.”

I blacked out again.

I woke up on my new coffee table to Rooke pouring vodka into my wound. I screamed. The burning was intense. I tried to push her away, but I noticed my hands and feet were zip cuffed to the legs of the table. I tried to arch away, but Hightower was straddling my hips, sitting on me. They were wearing surgical gloves.

“Bite down on this.” Hightower shoved dental cotton into my mouth. I clenched my jaw as I never had before.

Hightower smoothed my hair, then lifted his hand to open and close his fist rapidly, “I know, buddy, I know….” He looked at Rooke, “Don’t you have morphine or something?!” His other hand was pressing something into my wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

I noticed he had an IV in his arm; the line wrapped around his wrist and ended somewhere on the floor. He was going to donate blood.

Rooke shook her head, “Morphine depresses the cardiovascular system; he could crash on us if I did.”

She grabbed Hightower’s arm and removed the IV, handed him a band-aid, and started working on prepping that bag for me. Hightower took his hand away.

“Thank you, Quikclot….” He remarked.

The two of them looked at the arrow stuck in my chest. The shaft was partially broken off so they could remove my dropshot. They had to cut me out of my shirt.

“Do we push it through or pull it out?” Hightower asked.

I screamed at the idea of either one.

“Normally, I’d say push it through, but his shoulder blade is in the way. We’re going to have to pull it out. Get my scalpel and clamps. I’ll stem the bleeding and start the sutures, you pull the arrow when I tell you. Take those chainmail gloves. When it’s out, I’ll need you to start removing the clamps as I finish the stitches.”

When Rooke came at me with a scalpel I actually tried to push her off, but Hightower held my shoulders down while Rooke moved under him, between us. He planted his feet firmly on the ground.

“Inhale….” he said.

“I fucking hate you!”

The first cut didn’t hurt like I thought it would, probably because I was already in enough pain. I watched Rooke take the medical clamps to hold the wound open and clamp off the blood vessels, causing pain to stack on pain. The wound being held open was the worst. This was agony as I’d never before experienced.

Rooke moved out from under us and planted her hands on my shoulders, putting all of her weight on them.

“Pull it.” She ordered.

Hightower shoved two fingers right into my chest.

I screamed and swore, trying to struggle, but the two held me down.

“Fuck, it’s hard to get a grip….” I could feel him rooting around in there, pushing the arrow around.

“Fucking put me down, I don’t fucking care what happens!”

“Can’t do it, Rick.” Rooke shook her head.

“Got it.” Hightower jerked the arrow out of my chest quickly and dropped it. The two of them switched off, Hightower working on the medical clamps while Rooke stitched. I was gripping the legs of the table with all my might and tears were streaming down my face.

They didn’t get very far before I fainted.

When I woke up, I was on the couch with a newly bandaged chest and an IV of Hightower’s O negative stuck in my arm. My chest was a dull cavern of warm pain. Bright agony sparkled in my lungs, making it hurt to breathe.

Hightower and Rooke were talking. I looked over, eyes cracked, pretending to be asleep.

“Can’t tell you: professional confidentiality.”

“My ass, this is one of my designs.” She held the broken arrow in her hands and I think she was considering sticking it into his neck.

He smiled, “You sure you should tell me that?”

“You stole the plans to one of my weapons and sold them to somebody. Or you were planning on doing just that.”

“Maybe I did, maybe another spy did. Who knows?”

She made this disgusted sigh, “Fine. I’m going to give him the morphine and bill you for the surgery.”

“Fair enough.”

Rooke put the broken arrow on the coffee table and stood over me to inject the morphine into the IV bag. Hightower sat down at my desk, doing something on his mobile.

“Make sure the two of you eat something and drink plenty of water. You both lost a lot of blood.”

“I didn’t lose any blood; I know exactly where it is.” He pointed to me.

“It’s cute when Conway’s a smartass, not so much when you do it.”

He chuckled.

“What is Conway to you?”

“A colleague, what else?”

“You dump a colleague in front of a hospital and then go get a new one. You don’t risk your life and call up a former enemy to perform back-alley surgery and help with the post-op care. You wouldn’t have done it for the agents you used to work with, why stick your neck out for Conway?”

“I knew you’d help him, regardless of who he was working with.”

“You didn’t have to, you could have dumped him in the emergency room and ran; you stabilized him enough for that.”

Hightower was quiet.

“I’d consider that a pretty close approximation for a friend,” She made those airquotes, “’Hightower’. And what you’re doing to your friend is terrible.”

“That’s quite the moral judgment from someone that framed her husband for murder.”

“You’re jerking him around.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to back off and stop stealing from me. I know what you’re thinking and you’re way off.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’m sure Conway can be convinced to bring you in to the police.”

“Of course. But you won’t, because you’re not so sure he can take me in, dead or alive.”

“He’s gotten the jump on you before.”

“Very true.”

“If I catch you trying to carry on with your mission, you’re getting exposed.”

I passed out again.

I woke up in the early afternoon to the cleanest I’d ever seen my apartment and Hightower sitting across from me, repairing the hole in my coat. I searched for bloodstains, but Hightower apparently knew the trick to getting bloodstains out of clothing. Because of course he’d know something like that.

“Help me up.” I told him. He looked up, put the coat on the coffee table, and pulled me into a sitting position.

“Christ, Conway, if I knew Boomslang was going to be there, I’d never have-“

“Save it.” I wiped my face, “I am getting sick of being pulled into this grudge you have with those agents.”

“I already told you-“He pushed a glass into my hands.“-No! I talked to Coachwhip; you’re full of shit. You know she offered me a place in her ring if I bumped you off? Now I’m wondering if maybe that’s a better idea than going with whatever you’ve got cooked up in that twisted head of yours.”

“You had your chance last night.”

“My point is, you lied about them not taking outsiders.”

“They don’t take _experienced_ outside agents, Conway. Too hard to control. Too many bad habits. They only take rookies. You would be their sole exception. And yes, murdering someone in front of them is a requirement.”

“With this mission, they’ve pretty much confirmed us working together…They probably saw drinking that night….Fuck, you’ve really put me in it.”

“I know, I know. I put you in their crosshairs. I’ll make it up-“

“-How?! I am not going to be fucking working with you. You’re dangerous.”

He sighed, almost looked hurt, “You disappoint me, Mr. Conway. But if that’s how you feel, I won’t try to bring you in on this, anymore.”

“One of us is clearly insane. You probably think it’s me.”

“Dismantling their agency helps every freelance agent in the city. Not just me.”

“I can probably do that through Mayfield. You’re a maniac and you’re drawing way to much attention to the both of us.”

Hightower stood up, “I made you something to eat. You’re going to be out of commission for a little while.”

He left.

I thought about the idea of living off Hightower’s blood for a while. I looked at the glass and took a big gulp. I needed a drink.

I spat it out as soon as I tasted it, I was so surprised.

It was ordinary tap water.


	6. Blood Red Water

When Hightower left, I walked to the kitchen to see that he had bought a cake and Chinese takeout.

 _“Sorry for getting you shot!”_ The cake said in red icing. It was a chocolate cake. It really felt like he was trying to be nice, but such a thing was completely unnatural to him, so it always came off as awkward.

Still, it was food.

I was out of commission for a little while, owing to my shoulder. I flexed my fingers and bent my elbow to be sure my arm still worked. It did. I removed to bandages to get a look at my wound. It was pretty much a giant bruise. The wound itself looked like an X where they had to open the wound and stretch the skin over to close it.

The stitiches were pretty intense. I’ve had to get stitches before, but none as thick as this. It looked like stitches you might see on clothing or that Rooke had doubled up. Either way, It was going to look pretty cool when it healed. You’d be able to feel it through my clothes. Rooke had left post-op care instructions on my bed, along with antibiotics and pain killers because, in her words, _“Since I know you’re just going to keep going on missions anyway”._

Instead, I poured myself some absinthe, made it the way Hightower showed me, and sipped quietly, watching the rain. This is what I knew so far: Boomslang had probably been hired on to guard the prototypes that Hightower wanted. He had been waiting for us. That meant that he knew that at least Hightower was coming. He might have known about me, too. How?

Either myself or Hightower was bugged.

I should warn him.

I considered what would happen if I did. I did not under any circumstances need to reinforce whatever bond he was thinking we shared. He seemed to take me as a man as serious as he. Our relationship definitely seemed far more intense for him than it was for me, but that didn’t mean I wanted him to get hurt. He had his sweet moments.

I sent a message:

 

> Conway: They’re on to you.
> 
>                 I think one or both of us is bugged. Boomslang was waiting for us. Watch your back.
> 
> Pay: $0

He tried to message me back, but I disconnected. I wasn’t going to go on any jobs for him anymore, so what did I care what he had to say? He had his sweet moments, sure, but I also knew he was probably a lunatic, if not a full-blown psychopath. It was best not to give him any more attention than necessary.

Next: If Boomslang had the prototype, he had to have stolen it first with help (Sawscale?), or it was given to him.

I turned on the TV to the news. Coachwhip was on screen, talking. The headline read: “New Intex CEO to attempt lift on weapons ban.”

“Gentleman. It's called education. It doesn’t come from government meddling. It comes from our teachers, and more importantly, our parents. Our research has shown that by taking weapons out of lawful citizens, it ensures that only outlaws have weapons. Citizens should choose for themselves whether or not to have weapons.”

“That’s very interesting, Ms. Burnham. And what, so far, has statistics proven regarding the weapon’s ban and its effect on crime?”

“It doubled since the weapon’s ban.”

“And who provides the financial backing for this study?”

“Intex.”

“Do you believe the funding might have affected the outcome of the study?”

“No, just as the campaign contributions don’t affect your policies.” Coachwhip smiled.

This was one hell of a woman.

I sat down at my computer. I hadn’t even tried cracking Coachwhip’s computer, yet. I booted up the image, where it asked me for a password. I tapped my fingers. This might take a while. For the life of me, I could not crack this passcode. None of my password-cracking tools worked, I couldn’t find any backdoors, and it would take literally ten million years for my software to decrypt the data. I named off every single snake species I could think of. Nothing.

I sighed. I got a message on my mobile.

 

> Norwood: Break-in at Intex
> 
>                 This is Charley Norwood with Intex Firearms. I was wondering if you could help us recover a case of stolen military-grade hardware; you will be well compensated.
> 
> Pay: $1500

I knew I was injured, but the money was just too much to pass up.

“How may I help you?”

“That was quick, thank you!” Whoever it was had a high, thin voice.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“One of our storage facilities was broken into last week and we can’t get the police to move on it. We’d like your help recovering the stolen goods. We don’t want you getting in trouble or anything, but maybe if you could look over the crime scene for us, you can find out who did it.”

“No problem. Where am I going?”

“The corner of Montalbano and Mason.”

“Got it. Any special requests?”

“If anybody sees you there, the crime scene will be considered compromised. Make sure you aren’t seen.”

“Understood.” I was going to need some ketamine.

Norwood disconnected.

I popped some pain pills and watched TV. Gessler was on the news again. He was going to trial for conspiracy to commit murder and fraud. Man, I wish I could have punched his face again. I picked up the arrow from the table.

I examined the arrowhead; it was designed to destroy, one hollow chisel-tip pointing forward and three hinged razors pointing back. As soon as the arrowhead hit something hard enough (like my shoulder blade), the razors slammed forward to prevent the arrow from backing out and to cut in every direction.

I could see where Hightower had problems extracting it, even with chainmail gloves.

Bullets were nicer. Bullets were sterile, dull. They killed with speed and force. You could get shot and stitched up and leave the bullet inside for the rest of your life with no problems. Arrows were different. Arrows carved you up from the inside and poisoned you with infection.

I put it down and checked my mobile.

Hightower had taken the time to grade my mission. Despite the noise and witnesses, he paid me my salary plus half and gave me a perfect grade.

I suppose that made sense. It was he who failed the mission, but now I wondered if I should have failed mine.

Pain pills kicking in, I got dressed and stepped out.

 

* * *

 

Mason Street was in the industrial district, now mostly abandoned in a sketchy part of town where the stray cats were carrying heat because the rats had killed before. I knew there were plenty of shady characters around taking advantage of the privacy if you knew where to look. Fog was rolling in with the rain and it was starting to get cold.

This might have been related to the racetrack. Boomslang was an asshole that tried to kill me, but I couldn’t fault his compatriots for keeping me in business. At least Coachwhip didn’t seem so bad.

I stepped under the police tape, turned a corner and put my hand on the door knob, stepping in.

I looked around. There was nobody there. I entered into a dark warehouse where everything was stored in those heavy-duty pelican cases, stacked to the ceiling. Everything was neat and tidy. Excessively so. No signs of a break-in or anything.

The lights cut on.

“Welcome to the party, Mr. Conway.” While I still couldn’t tie it to any country, I knew that accent from anywhere. His voice sent shivers up my spine. I spun on my heels.

“Boomslang!”

He was unarmed. Since I had last seen him, he had acquired some pretty serious slash marks across his face and a gap in his teeth. It put an irritating whistle to his voice.

“Hightower do that to you?”

“You shouldn’t be working with an injury like yours, mate. You could make it worse.” He walked toward me, grinning, “What are you doing here?”

“Investigating a break-in.” I replied, backing away.

Boomslang looked around, “There doesn’t seem to be a break-in, to me. The only intruder I see is you.”

“You can bring that up with my client.”

He cracked his knuckles, “In fact, I don’t happen to see Hightower either.”

I bluffed, “He’ll be along shortly.”

Boomslang called it, “He’s on another mission, mate. We made sure.”

I backed away, drew the resolver, and fired.

This time I was close enough to understand. Deathfluke.

He closed the distance between us, but I was ready with the hushcracker to his jaw. It barely phased him. He returned the favor and I bounced into the wall, reeling. He smacked the gun out of my hand and he punched me to the ground. I kicked out his leg and brought him to the ground, trying to strangle him. He tightened his neck, grabbed my shirt, and rolled us, so that he was the one pinning me.

His left fist met my face in a dazzling shower of stars. His right brought a hot flash of white and red. I felt cartilage smash between his knuckles and my skull, twisting out of shape. He shoved my fingers into his face, trying to blind me. I bite down on them as hard as I could, tasting blood.

He howled and smacked me off of him. I pushed myself out from under him and got to my feet, but then he caught me in the ribs and a kick to the shins and I was on my back again. He sneered, satisfied.

While on my back, I kicked at the lowest of low-blows and got him away from me. He called me all manner of ugly terms I didn’t understand while I scrambled to my feet. I had to get out of here.

I tried to step around him, but his superior reach made that impossible. I got as close into his chest as I could and stayed on him, kicking and kneeing everywhere I could until he grabbed my head by the temples. His palm utterly engulfed my face and his fingers were halfway across my head. I felt him shove me toward the wall, then a crack, a flash of light, then curtains.

 


	7. Decent Human Beings

I woke up to a bucket of water being splashed in my face. I snorted and coughed blood all over myself. I tried to move, No dice; I was zipcuffed to the chair. It made my injury hurt like hell. I shook my head, blinking.

Boomslang was sitting in a chair beside a desk. On that desk was my hat, my pistol, and my mobile.

“This was a setup...What do you want?”

“I suppose you’re wondering if you’re still getting paid. You’ll have to bring it up with Charley. They’ll be along shortly.”

“Stop busting my balls.”

“You can keep yer balls, lad. It’s your ass we’re after.”

The door opened.

“Christ, he scratched me up like a cat on crack.” Sawscale breezed in with a large dark shape over their shoulder and the XRECP-15 in their hand. I could have sworn I heard banjos when they spoke.

It was hard to make out Sawscale’s gender. Thin, shapeless body hidden under an oversized dark brown dropcoat that reached the ankles, a loose shirt, and a bolero tie. They had blond hair that hung around the ears. Brown eyes. Instead of the standard trilby or fedora crosslink coil, he or she had a worn, brown leather Stetson. Their hypertrousers were orange.

With a grunt, they dumped Hightower on the floor. His hands and feet were zip cuffed together. He grunted, but was otherwise still. There was blood streaming from under his hat. I noticed a dark, brownish stain on his coat. It was from where I’d bled all over him.

There was blood on their shirt and a few slashes across their face. They frisked Hightower and put his things next to mine. Without his hat on, I could clearly see a large gash in the back of his head.

“Hell happened to you?” Boomslang asked.

“I tried to shoot him in the face, but he just caught the arrow with a table and attacked me with it.” They pointed at their face.

“Did you get my car back?”

“Of course.”

“Let me see…”

Boomslang left.

“H-Hightower?”

He grunted, lifting his head to me, “You all right?”

“No talking.” Sawscale ordered.

Boomslang returned furious.

“This is for stealing my car and smashing the window.” Boomslang kicked Hightower in the ribs, making him grunt.

While Boomslang entertained himself with kicking the shit out of Hightower, who remained frightfully silent, Sawscale grinned at me, “Looks like we got your pal.”

I was desperate to get out of this. “He’s not my pal; we’re not partners! If I knew you were going to be there I wouldn't have-” “-Oh, have some fucking dignity, Conway!” Hightower screamed from the floor. He looked up at me, furious, bleeding from the nose and mouth.

“Oh, fuck you! I’m not getting dragged into your shit!”

“Oh, you’re already in it, mate.” Boomslang kicked me in the chest, knocking the chair over. Stars burst from my eyes and I felt like my brain had shot from my nose.

“And you! Shut the fuck up!” From the sound, it seemed like Boomslang stomped Hightower in the head, but I couldn’t see. He shrieked once, then went quiet and my blood went cold. After all, why should Intex have to explain why a man ended up dead in their warehouse when they could kill the both of us? Boomslang put his foot on the seat of the chair and pulled, bringing me back upright. Hightower was motionless on the ground, his back to me. I stared at him.

Sawscale delicately rolled Hightower onto his back with a foot and leaned over him, “What would you say if I made you pay for the crimes I feel _you’ve_ committed?”

Hightower opened his eyes and I could finally breathe. His face was that terrifying blank again. He arched his neck, grunting, then spat blood and mucus right into Sawscale’s face.

Sawscale flinched, turned their head toward me slowly, eyes closed. They wiped their face with their coat sleeve, inhaled, and then spat tobacco juice right into Hightower’s eyes with all the force and accuracy of a cobra. He flinched, but didn’t make a sound.

“You call Coachwhip, yet?” Boomslang asked as Sawscale stood up and turned their head toward him.

“She’s on her way.”

“We’ll leave them in the closet until she gets here. Then the pigs’ll finish what we don’t do.”

Sawscale grabbed Hightower by his feet and stuffed him into a janitor closet.

Boomslang gripped the back of my chair. He dragged me in there with him. The door slammed, then locked.

“Kind of bullshit they didn’t get you a chair, too.” I remarked quietly.

Hightower snorted.

“Is Sawscale a man or a woman?”

“Neither. Conway, I am really sorry for this.”

“And is Boomslang Australian, British, or Scottish?” I really wasn’t talking to Hightower, I was just wondering aloud.

“I always thought he was from South Africa, anyway, what’s this have to do with anything?”

“Nothing. Why’d they leave us alive?” I asked, “Ransom? Torture us for information?”

Sawscale banged on the door, “Shut up in there!”

“Nah,” Hightower sat up, eyes still closed, he was whispering, “Information from torture is notoriously unreliable. They could torture us until we admitted to sinking the Lusitania. That wouldn’t make it true.”

I sighed, “Oh, thank God….”

“I think they’ll torture us for fun.”

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” I started struggling.

“Relax…” I heard a snap, Hightower’s boots scrape the floor, and a second snap, “You know how to get out of zip cuffs?” He sat up right behind me, free. He twisted my wrists, “Just twist your hands like this and…”

He pulled my arms apart, snapping the zipcuffs. I was free. He was wiping his eyes to get the tobacco spit out.

“Now we just need to-“I kicked down the closet door, “-Oh, what the fuck?!”

The door flew into the wall. I ran for my life toward the table. Hightower threw himself into Boomslang, then jumped off to tackle Sawscale to the ground. I slid across the desk, grabbing the XRECP-15 and bringing it to my shoulder. It suddenly made complete sense. I fired a shot off just as Boomslang stood up.

The deathfluke worked by pushing light metal objects away from the body. Bullets, which were generally small, were affected more by the push. Since they were also going very fast, the influence of the magnets was much greater. Arrows were different. Because they were slower and heavier, their course wasn’t redirected as much. My deathfluke had actually saved my life, redirecting the arrow away from my heart and into my shoulder.

His deathfluke redirected the arrow from the meat of his bicep and into his neck.

“Call me Ishmael!” I yelled before I hit the floor.

The arrow entered just below his jaw. He had just enough life in him to grab at the shaft before he hit the floor.

I crawled over to Boomslang and supported the weapon on his back. Hightower was pinning them, punching. Sawscale drove the heel of their hand into Hightower’s nose, then punched him in the throat. He fell off of them, gasping. Sawscale pulled themselves up just as I fired a shot. Sawscale twisted, whipping their coat in the air. The billowing motion caused the arrow to bounce off the coat and to the ground. I tried again while their front was exposed. Sawscale leaned to the side and caught the arrow.

“Shit!” I was both impressed and terrified. Sawscale grinned, then charged Hightower with it.

Hightower picked up the first arrow and got to his feet, doubling back. He pulled his dropcoat off over his head and he tossed it to the ground, causing Sawscale to trip over it. Hightower threw himself onto them and wrestled the arrow away. Sawscale kicked him away and into a wall. He landed on his feet.

I tried firing again, but all I got was the sad pop of an empty canister.

Sawscale got to their feet, “It’s all right, Mr. Conway, all men experience equipment failure now and again.”

Hightower punched them in the face and tried to bury the arrow in Sawscale’s chest. Sawscale tried to get him back with an uppercut, but Hightower blocked it and punched them in the chin. They returned the favor with a kick to the chest. Hightower stumbled, but caught the foot when Sawscale tried again, flipping them in the air. He dipped down, grabbed his jacket, and Sawscale fell to the floor. In one fluid motion he put his coat back on, then kicked Sawscale off the ground with one foot, and in the head with the other.

They moved like cats, wired to the point of snapping. Hightower’s face was perfectly blank, his killing look, while Sawscale looked positively jubilant. I looked at the Mauser on the floor and then at Sawscale. There was no way I could get a clear shot again, not with the circling dance they were doing.

I started shoving all our stuff (And Boomslang’s car keys) into my pockets, minus the hats, which I put on my head, and Hightower’s broomhandle, which I carried.

Hightower jerked toward Sawscale, trying to push the arrow into their chest, but Sawscale blocked with an arm. The arrow pushed through the dropcoat, the arm, and the dropcoat. I almost puked.

Then I bolted for the door. Hightower stepped back as I passed. I grabbed the collar of his coat.

“Leave ‘em, let’s go before Coachwhip shows up with a fucking army!”

That got through to him and he ran with me toward Boomslang’s car. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Sawscale pull the arrow the rest of the way through and throw it without so much as a wince.

I heard several whooshes of air behind me as we made a beeline to the car. I had forgotten about the XRECP-14.

“Don’t you fuckers ever quit?!” Sawscale stalked after us.

I heard Hightower stumble, “Shit!”

I turned. He reached down and pulled a dart out of his calf. He looked up at me, then dropped like a puppet with the strings cut.

“Oh, fuck me!” I brought Hightower’s Mauser up and started shooting at Sawscale, who ducked back into the building. I ran to him, grabbed him by the back of the collar, got under him, and carried him to the car on my back.

“You awake?”

“Yeah, I just have no fucking balance.”

I stuffed him in the front seat, slid over the hood, and jumped in the driver's seat. Hightower fell across the seats and I had to push him against the door to buckle our seatbelts. I pushed the start button and the car purred to life. There was just one more thing.

“Uh, Towers, I dunno how to drive!”

“Fucking shit!” He looked at me bright, frightening eyes, “Sawscale’s on our _ass_ ; you gotta learn some time.”

“You should drive.”

“I can’t even walk, Conway. Put your foot on the left fat pedal. That’s the break.”

“Okay…”

“Shit, okay, the other one must be the ga-“ Hightower shifted the car into drive. It lurched into motion, bolting off like a horse, “- shit! Okay, we’re driving!”

“Oh, dear God!” He grabbed onto the arm rest and the center console for dear life.

I hit a curb, then straightened out.

“You know the basic rules, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Good, stay off the highway, I’ll give you directions.”

I looked back, a motorcycle was following us. Sawscale. I lit up a cigarette.

“If you think you’re lighting that shit up in my car, think again.”

Were we really doing this? “This isn’t your car, it’s Boomslang’s.”

“And Boomslang’s dead and I stole it from him -great shot, by the way- so that makes it my car. Cigarettes cause” –oh, God, here we go- “heart disease, lung cancer, emphysema, and people to mistake _you of all people_ for being cool, so let me do you a favor!” He lunged for me.

“Fuck you, I’m awesome!”

We were swerving like crazy.

I moved away from him, but even in this state he managed to grab the cigarette from my lips and toss it out the smashed-in window. Unfortunately, his momentum carried and he fell into my lap. Taking the stick shift to the gut must have hurt. The cigarette flew like a firefly on a mission into the motorcyclist behind us. Said cyclist had forgotten their helmet, so when the cigarette hit them, they fell off their bike, which crashed.

“Did that just…?” Hightower asked from my lap.

We looked at each other.

In unison: “Whoops.”

“Hightower, I don’t even know your name, get your head out of my lap.”

“My head is spinning and you’re driving like a monkey on PCP; I can’t.”

I got my arm between his chest and my leg and shoved him back to his side of the car. He brought the seat back to almost horizontal and stared out the window. He was digging his nails into the door handle and center console.

“Slow down, Conway, and stop swerving. You’re making the dizziness worse and if we get pulled over, we’re fucked.”

I slowed down, “I think I’m doing pretty well for a first-timer.”

“Why didn’t you leave me?”

“You didn’t leave me. Where am I taking you? You got someplace to hole up?”

“You’re looking at it.”

I glanced in the back to see luggage and a bowling ball bag.

“You’re homeless?”

Hightower glared at me while trying to keep as still as possible, “I move around a lot because of work.”

“So, you’re a migrant worker.”

“I swear to God, Conway, I will punch the shit out of you the second I can move again.”

I looked at him, his eyes had gone from green to black, his pupils were so dilated.

“Guess you’re headed back with me.”

“Drop me off at a hotel.”

“Oh, yeah, it’ll be great to be alone in a sleazy dump when you start hallucinating a mile a minute.”

“I’m viciously high _right now._ What do you care?”

“It’s called being a decent, non-psychopathic human being, Hightower. You should try it sometime, you’d be better at it than you think.”

 

 


	8. Turning in the Grave

Despite the fact that he could do little more than lie in a heap, the second I stopped in the parking lot of my apartment complex, Hightower took off his seatbelt and opened the door, literally falling out.

“Sweet unmoving land.”

“It wasn’t that bad, was it?” I asked, crossing over the front of the car.

“Conway, please. I’ve been driving, while both drunk and high, while the passenger in the front seat was _trying to kill me with a knife_ and I still broke less traffic laws than you.”

“You are hardly a credible witness right now.”

I stooped over and got his arm around me, pulling him to his feet. He tried to balance himself, get his feet under him, but it just wasn’t going to happen.

I dipped, then got his chest over me, grabbed a leg, and just picked him up in a fireman’s carry.

“No,no,no!” He curled around me, trying to hang on.

“Relax, you’re so light I could carry you anywhere.”

“Oh, my God, why is it so crowded this late on a work night?”

“Hightower, the parking lot is empty. You must be on some good shit.”

“The hell I am. You do not want to see what I’m seeing.”

I agreed, so I tried to change the subject.

“What was all that about?”

“Boomslang and Sawscale? I think they were trying to prove we were working together, then kill us.”

“How did Sawscale get the drop on you?”

“They sniped one of my missions, then tried to snipe me. Eventually, they just hit me in the back of the head with a brick.”

“Jesus, these guys aren’t fucking around.”

“Nope.”

“I think I’m figuring things out.”

His voice was condescending, “Really?”

“You know, Hightower, it’s like what Perry Mason said, I can’t help you much if you’re not completely honest with me.”

I cursed the fact that whoever owned this building was too cheap to fix the elevators. It wasn’t that Hightower was heavy, even with a dropshot, it was that he was tall it was hard to fit the both of us through doors.

“Fuck Perry Mason. He’s a racist and a sexist. And all the stories were the exact same.”

“Fuck you, Perry Mason was awesome.”

“In every case, he’s constantly stepping over the boundaries of ethics, and doesn’t give a shit. When his opponents call him on it, suddenly they’re petty assholes.”

“They were petty assholes, Hightower, Perry Mason was more concerned with justice.”

“So, he’s basically just a vigilante that passed the bar.”

“I would kill to get Perry Mason as my defense attorney.”

“Well, yeah, if you need a criminal lawyer, get a _criminal_ lawyer.Those books are terrible and you are terrible for liking them.”

I made it to my floor, “I am going to drop your ass right here.”

“Rick, if you drop me I will not hesitate to kick you through your own window the second my legs work again.” Calling me by my first name had to be a slip.

A fellow tenant stepped out into the hall. I realized how shady we looked.

“Hey, keep it down, will you?”

“Sorry, man! Just trying to get to bed.” I opened my door.

“Tell your drunk friend to shut up. Some of us got work in the morning.”

“My bad.”

Hightower grumbled, “I wish I was just drunk.”

“Hey, is that one of your spy friends?”

“Would I tell you if he was?”

“Scandalous, I’m jealous.”

“Nosy bastard.” Hightower growled as we entered my apartment, “Want me to kill him for you?”

“No.”

“I’ll do it pro bono.”

 _“No.”_ I dumped him on my couch.

“Your horsehead mask is freaking me the fuck out.”

I looked at it, then looked at Hightower. I put it in the bedroom and closed the door.

“You seeing things, yet?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“You’re awfully calm.”

“By sheer force of will.”

“I’m calling Rooke.”

“Don’t!”

I turned to him.

“I do not want her over here while I’m fucked up. I don’t trust her.”

“You’re drugged and a little beaten up.”

“Take my pulse and temperature every hour, if it gets over a hundred beats a minute, or I start running a high fever…dump me off at a hospital. And I’ve had worse.”

“Wow, you’re cagey.” I got my lone thermometer.

“Rooke can’t do anything except manage the symptoms. She’ll just tell you the same thing.” I stuck it in his mouth.

“She can at least tell us what you were stuck with.”

“It feels like a derivative of Jimson weed.” He had a low-grade fever.

I didn’t ask how he knew that. He pulled off his hat, coat, sweater, and shirt in one movement, then tossed the entire pile at the floor, then fell back on the couch. His gloves joined the pile.

I’d never seen him shirtless before. There were marks all over. Tattoos. Some were professional, others not so much, but all were faded, like he hadn’t had them touched up in some time and there were lots of them, but never dipped below the elbows. The biggest one was a rattlesnake coiled around his bicep with its head resting on his shoulder.

Then there were the scars; they really ran the gamut: Round cigarette burns and bullet scars made a constellation across his arm and body, a badly healed gunshot wound spread out in a star-like pattern on his chest; shiny burns and knife scars crisscrossed at random. Some were smooth, others were thick and knotted. One was nearly as long as my entire forearm.

They looked painful.

“Christ, Hightower….” I didn’t think I’d said that out loud, but apparently, I did. He folded his arms and turned away from me. It was just more scars and tattoos.

“You know, despite what you might think, I’m not a sadist.”

“Right.” I didn’t believe him.

“But what you did to Boomslang….God, I wish I had that on tape!” His rolled over on his back and his eye twitched, “I was expecting a fountain of all the shit he was full of to pour out of his neck. I had no idea you were such a good shot. He had a deathfluke and everything! You were amazing.”

I made myself coffee and took off my coat and hat. I put his stuff with mine. Because my marksmanship was what I was thinking about when I killed a man.

I found it disturbing that he’d be proud of me for that.

_Just take the compliment._

“Wow, thanks…It sounds like you worked with him.”

“Yeah. We were paired off a lot. Similar mission objectives. He hated me then, too. I was an asshole, though. He’d piss me off and I’d just talk to Sawscale in Spanish if they were with us for the rest of the mission and leave him out. Otherwise, I’d just stay silent.”

“Petty bickering traffic lights.”

“What?”

“Green, orange, red.”

“Shit, don’t say things like that. Now that’s all I see.” He rubbed his eyes, “Anyway, Hypertrousers weren’t invented yet.”

I light up a cigarette. He couldn’t tell me I couldn’t smoke in my own apartment.

“That smells kind of good, actually.”

“Want one?”

“ _No_.”

“Who was Agent Diamondback?”

“Where’d you hear that name?”

“Coachwhip offered it to me. Said it was vacant.”

“It is. Agent Diamondback is dead.”

Whatever he was stuck with had at least loosened his tongue and made him a captive audience.

“That cigarette was one-in-a-million.” I said.

“I know! Well, I guess they won’t be tailgating us anymore.”

“And if they lived, they’ll wear a helmet.”

“I told you smoking was bad for your health.”

A roach crawled next to his head.

“Oh, fuck!” He bolted upright, then fell right over on the other side of the couch.

I leaned over and stamped it with my fist. Hightower gave me an unbelieving look, like I just shot his dog.

“Am I high or did you just kill Mr. Samsa?”

“You are high and Mr. Samsa was a burden on his family. He’s better off dead.”

We laughed for a little bit, then he seemed to go to sleep.

“I’m rubbing off on you.” He said with a smile.

That chilled me.

I sat down at the computer and stared at Coachwhip’s password screen. I looked over at Hightower, sleeping on the couch. If what Hightower said earlier was true, than he could have only worked with Boomslang and Sawscale if he himself was a member. So, why then didn’t his codename fit the theme? Obviously, because he changed it when he left. So, why’d he pick Hightower? Why didn’t he just keep his old codename? He obviously wasn’t hiding from them, so then he called himself ‘Hightower’ to send a message.

I typed “Hightower” into the computer. The desktop came right up.

“Son of a bitch…,”I turned to Hightower, “You beautiful disaster.”

He gave me a thumbs up.

So, I was looking at a scan of their objective list. I scrolled through. Hightower was right; they had been bumping off freelance agents. For those with pictures, dead agents had an ‘X’crossed over their face. For those without, their names had been crossed out.

I found my picture listed as, “Fancy Hat Guy” which made me smile. Hightower’s picture was older, maybe even a decade old. Names had been written on his picture, detailing aliases which were then scratched out, presumably when he stopped using them. The only one that wasn’t scratched out was “HUGE ASSHOLE”.

There was a line drawn between us labeled “Cahoots?” along with a short line about me stopping him. I was connected to Rooke, who was listed as a neutral party friendly to me. Hightower was connected to Gessler, who had his picture crossed out with ‘POTEN. KILL/CAPTURE’ written over his head.

“It’s not something you control.”

I turned in my chair to see Hightower looking rather intently at absolutely nothing.

“Seeing anything cool?”

He looked at me. At space, then back at me, then jumped as if startled.

“Oh, shit, Conway!” He looked back at the nothing and moved his hand through it, “Sorry, I’m a little confused.”

“I think we both are.”

“..Is this real life?”

I was sorely tempted to tell him ‘no’, “Yes.”

He nodded and got into a seemingly heated discussion with an imaginary person in Spanish.

I called Rooke.

“Yes, Conway?” she sounded groggy.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry, listen. I got this drugged, homeless migrant worker on my couch.”

“…Why?” I could imagine her sitting up in bed.

“I found him on a job.”

“I can hear him. Who’s he talking to?”

“Nobody. That’s the problem. I wanna know what he took.”

“Drop him off at a hospital.”

“I think he’s illegal. I don’t want him to get in trouble.”

“Okay, so what are the symptoms?”

“Uh, fever, hallucinations…no balance.”

“Sounds like a deliriant. Pinch him to test for a pain response.”

“He got beat up pretty bad, but it doesn’t seem to be bothering him.” I also wasn’t wild about putting my hands on him, just because he was high didn’t make him less dangerous.

“Is he sensitive to light?”

“His pupils are completely blown.”

“It sounds like datura stramonium intoxication.”

“What?”

“Jimson weed.”

Bang on, Hightower.

“What do I do?”

“Not much. He should be fine in twenty-four to forty eight hours. If he starts running a high fever or his pulse reaches over a hundred beats a minute, it’s a medical emergency and you should…drop him off in front of the hospital.”

“I will.”

“And Conway? That homeless migrant worker doesn’t deserve your sympathy and you shouldn’t work with him.”

She hung up on me.

I looked over at Hightower, who had passed out on his stomach again.

I followed up on the chain, it detailed everyone I had worked for and their relations to the gang.

TX Fabrications was friendly, since a few of their members were on the pay roll.

Rooke was indifferent; she had Lucena to do her dirty work.

Intex was in bed with them, especially since they were owned by one of their members. I wondered if D’Arcy Burnham was her real name. Probably not.

But then I found something interesting.

Prior to Gessler’s arrest, he had been accepting kickbacks for selling the agency his now-illegal stock at a reduced price than what it sold on the free black market. He might know something.

I needed a story to get him to talk, though.

I also had to get this to Mayfield, though I didn’t know what he could do with illegally obtained evidence.

I sat down on the floor beside Hightower, who’d gone quiet.

“You all right there, buddy?”

“Eh, the floor is breathing.”

I lit up a cigarette. He grabbed my wrist, he had a strong grip, turned my hand toward his face, and took the longest drag I had ever seen. He let go of my hand and held his breath.

“That’s one hell of a drag;” I looked at my cigarette, the ash was suspended perfectly, “I thought you didn’t smoke.”

“I quit a long time ago.” He explained, finally starting to exhale, the smoke was coming out of his nose and mouth in tiny puffs, “Nicotine is an anti-psychotic; I need it right now.”

He started coughing violently, covering his mouth.

I started chuckling and he punched me in the shoulder. It was light for him, but it sent a nasty shock through my arm.

“Ow, you bastard.”

His eyes were watering and he gagged from all the coughing. I reached over to rub his back but he flinched away.

“I can pick up some nicotine gum.” I offered.

Hightower shook his head, “Quitting the gum was harder than quitting cigarettes.”

I didn’t want to imagine Hightower having a nic-fit. I grabbed some blankets from the bedroom, tossed one on Hightower, and then wrapped one around myself, nodding off.


	9. Why the Scorpion Stings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death Warning
> 
> Note: Conway doesn't know the name of the song Hightower's playing. If you want to listen along, it's Liebestraum III by Franz Liszt. Bonus points for listening to the Demento OST version, as it adds to the atmosphere.

I woke up to Hightower sleeping on the couch, curled up, with his head beside mine. With his eyes closed and face relaxed, he didn’t look quite as dangerous as usual. I got up and made coffee, then ordered some food from that Chinese place across the street.

The delivery person announced their presence with a ring and when I opened it, the food was there, but no person to receive a tip. I decided I liked them.

“Turn off that fucking sun!” Hightower screamed, nearly deafening me, then clutched his head, “Oh, my fucking God!”

I got him water and naproxen. He downed them both.

“Welcome back.” I replied.

Hightower groaned.

“Rooke said that the deliriant you got stuck with was based on Jimson weed, so you’ll be okay.”

“That was the worst….This is still pretty bad. Where are we?”

“My apartment.”

“How’d we get here?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I remember tossing your cigarette out the window.” He paused, “Why does my mouth taste like an ashtray?”

He shot me this accusing look.

“You took a few drags off my cigarette.”

He looked like he didn’t believe me, “You let me do that?”

“I didn’t _let_ you do it.” I said defensively, “You said nicotine would help.”

“You don’t give nonsmokers cigarettes, Conway, what the hell?”

“Did you know that your morals are skewed? I got you some Chinese. Your favorite.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I found about a hundred empty boxes of it in that beddown you had above my apartment.”

“Touché….” He still seemed confused. At least his pupils weren’t completely blown and he was speaking English. He sat up.

“What was I doing?”

“You had a full conversation with an imaginary friend in Spanish.” -He smiled- “You also told me you used to work with Boomslang and Sawscale.”

Hightower shot me this nasty look, then put his face in his palms.

I shouldn’t have said that.

“High-me is a talkative bastard.” He looked like he wanted to punch himself, “Anything else?”

“Not really. Are all the agents you worked with like them?”

He wasn’t looking at me, “What, with all the dirty dealings and gratuitous violence? Yes. Wish I could say I was immune.”

I wish he could, too.

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t speak Spanish.”

 _“Tienes la bragueta abierta.”_ He told me.

I gave him a confused look, “I don’t speak Spanish.”

“I can tell.”

We ate Chinese on the floor, hardly talking.

“Where’d you get the tattoos?” I finally asked.

“Got my first one in San Antonio. It was a gift from my partner at the time.”

“The snake?”

“Yeah. I was a young idiot.”

“I think they look neat.”

“Tattoos aren’t a great idea in this line of work. It makes you easier to identify. I have to keep them covered, no matter how hot it gets.”

“That’d get pretty irritating.”

“Especially in San Antonio.  Or anywhere in the south, really.”

“…Is that where you’re from?”

Hightower shook his head.

“Head any better?”

“No, and my vision’s still blurry.”

“Maybe you should go back to bed.  I got a job, anyway.”

“I’ll show myself out.”

I locked the computer and left for the East Pointe County Jail.

 

* * *

 

“You know what the greatest thing about America is?” Gessler asked as I sat down.

“What?”

“Our endless appeals system.”

I sighed.

Gessler was one of those men that was going to hell and knew it; I think he was looking forward to doing business down there. He gave me that same condescending look he had given me when we met face-to-face for the first time. Only this time, he was unarmed.

“What are you doing here, Conway?”

I tipped my hat, “It’s Agent Diamondback, now.”

Gessler laughed, “You?! An agent? Conway, please. In order for you to be Agent Diamondback, you would have had to kill the first Di….“

His face went white.

I just smiled and kept my gaze, “Now, I know you probably want out of that burning hot chair of yours, so I want to keep this quick.”

“Did Coachwhip send you?” He had the look on his face of a dead man walking. 

“Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. But right now, you’re not much worth to me alive.”

Gessler narrowed his eyes, “Why are you here?”

“I got a hold of Coachwhip’s laptop and cracked it.”

“What’d you find?”

“This entire city is dirty. Half the police, the race track, Intex…I want in.”

“You want a cut?” Gessler’s eyebrows raised, “Damn, you’re one vicious bastard. But you’re in over your fucking head. First, you’re not getting over on Coachwhip, nobody does. Second, you just fucked yourself by killing Diamondback.”

“How so?”

“Once you kill for them, they fucking own you.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s why I was never a made member. That, and too much serial backstabbing.”

“They were always pretty straight with me…” I acted defensive.

“Ask yourself this, Conway: Why did Coachwhip send you after Diamondback? Incidental or not, he was one of their own. That’s pretty fucking cold. I’ll tell you why. He tried to quit. Wouldn’t play the game. He was a real livewire back then, but loyal as a dog. Coachwhip thought it was time for a change of leadership and had both her and Diamondback worked over to do it. Hightower was a spy through and through, but she wasn’t ready for Coachwhip’s coach whip...a Mauser C96. Diamondback got away with his skin more or less intact, which is more than what could be said for his boss.”

“The actual Hightower.” I said and he nodded, “Diamondback fell because he wouldn’t play along.”

“Right. And you don’t fucking quit them, they quit you.”

“Shit….” I muttered. Gessler smiled. I never thought I’d pity Hightower. Gessler probably thought I was realizing the depth of the shit I was in. He was right.

“If that’s true, why did our Hightower work for you?”

“What makes you think he knew every swinging dick in the organization or on the payroll? Please. Besides, I never had anything to do with him as Diamondback; in fact, I only found out about him when I heard he went rogue. Even as Hightower, we never saw each other face-to-face until you got me arrested. Imagine my surprise when he shows up in East Point a few years later as some sort of ultimate badass. Only now, he was an enemy badass. So, Coachwhip tells me to keep him on hand for my personal business until they find a replacement -” He motioned to me, “- with a similar skill set. You whack him and it’s like swapping out car parts.” Gessler rubbed his hands as if washing them, then showed me his empty hands.

“So, he tries to escape and ends up working for them again anyway….”

“I told you. _You can’t quit._ Fucking ironic, isn’t it?” He leaned back and smiled, “Don’t you feel like an asshole?”

I punched him over the table. The guards practically threw me out, but I think it was worth it.

 

* * *

 

 

I walked into an empty apartment.

I suppose I should’ve been used to him vanishing at the drop of a hat, but I still uneasy. I looked over to my kitchen counter and noticed the bottles containing my pain pills were open. There was some cash beside them. I carefully counted them out.

I was short three.

A note: “ _I’m sorry, Conway, something came up and I needed these pills. I hope you understand. ~H_ ”

I turned on my computer to check when it was last accessed. Last night. Okay, so Hightower hadn’t tried to get into my machine. Not like he could, at least within the planet’s lifetime with the best supercomputer running full tilt.

I was changing my bandages when my mobile went off. It was Rooke.

“Conway, turn on the news. It’s Gessler.”

I complied.

“Police are looking for a man by name of John Delores, who was arrested for driving while intoxicated. Police state he was put in a holding cell with the Intex CEO Fritz Gessler. At about six o’clock today, police discovered Gessler’s body in his cell dead from an apparent broken neck. Delores was nowhere to be found. Police Chief Mayfield….” The anchor kept talking, but I wasn’t listening.

“I just spoke to him today….” Getting a source killed was a cardinal sin in my line of work. Every spy knew that. If word got out that even potentially working with you could get them killed, nobody would work with you.

Gessler was trash, but it still killed me. I thought I was going to faint.

“I’d get a hold of Hightower if I were you. Call me back.”

I called him. No answer.

He messaged me, “Driving. What do you need?”

“Did you hear about Gessler?”

“Of course. He was one of them.”

My blood ran cold.

"You killed him.”

“Yes.”

“But, you worked for him.”

“And then I found out what he was.”

“Pick up the phone, Hightower.”

“Absolutely not.”

“How did you find out about Gessler?”

“I took an image of Coachwhip’s laptop off your computer.”

Bullshit. “Why are you doing this?”

A pause, “Right now, Mr. Conway, you can only control my behavior as far as your own.”

“I thought we were friends.”

“Spies don’t have friends.”

I felt my heart break. This was confusing. Had I actually started growing attached to him? I didn’t know anything about him.

“You don’t mean that.”

Another pause.

“I’m on a job right now, all right? We can talk this out later.”

A line. I grabbed it.

“You have no idea how crazy you are, do you?”

“That is not your concern. I do my job. “

“It’s not your job.”

“It’s been my job since I quit.”

_Once you kill for them, they fucking own you._

“Hightower, please, why are you doing this?” I realized how little punch that had when I didn’t even know the guy’s name.

“Like the frog and the scorpion drowned, Mr. Conway, I can’t help it.”

“Is Coachwhip your next target?”

“If you wish to save her, you know the requirement.” A challenge.

He disconnected.

Rooke called me back.

“I got a ping. He’s at the Pink Elephant.”

I left.

 

* * *

 

I didn’t need gatecrashers to get the door open, a hard push was all it took. I didn’t know what I was thinking. Fight him? I’d probably lose. Talk him out of it? Like that had worked so far.

I just felt that I had to see him.

The place was almost black and impossibly crowded with chairs and tables. The fire department couldn’t have approved this seating.

I heard classical piano music from the stage, where a single light illuminated the keys of the piano. Hightower was sitting in shadow.

He was playing softly, seemingly unaware or uncaring that all of East Point’s finest were looking for him. He didn’t even seem to be aware of me.

“No more murders.”

Hightower didn’t seem to hear me. He had that killer look, but it was different. There was anger there. The lines were harder, strained. The music sounded positively maniacal from how angrily he was playing.

I was pretty angry myself and I steeled myself for a battle.

“I can’t keep doing this.”

The music was starting to pick up speed, getting faster and faster. He was also getting louder.

I grabbed the lid and tried to slam it onto his fingers. He was too fast. Those same fingers were on my neck and holding me against the top instantly as every single note crashed. The strings were cutting into my face.

I was nowhere near a match for him.

I struggled, but he held me there. I tried kicking at his legs, but it didn’t seem to faze him, still pinning my face to the strings. The more I struggled, the more they cut into my face until he leaned in with an intensity I’d never seen and whispered in my ear.

Slow, clear, deliberate: “Richard. Calm down.”

His breath in my ear sent strong shivers up my spine and though I found it difficult, I relaxed. It was more like I stopped moving since I was completely wired. He let me go with a slight smile.

I could feel the long red lines across my face and I braced myself for a battle.

“What is it, Mr. Conway?”

I suddenly found myself at a loss for words. He was fully equipped and his back was straight. Just looking at him filled me with dread.

“I….”

What could I say? I couldn’t explain to Hightower why I was angry any more than I could explain blue to a blind man. He waited, putting his gloves back on.

“I don’t know why you’re worried about it.” He said, fingers flexing, “His admirable qualities were hardly prevalent.”

“That’s pretty rich coming from you. What is this all about? I need to know.”

His eyes met mine for a second, then back to his gloves, “My last orders from an employer were to kill the conspirers that killed her. I don’t quit.”

“That’s….that’s….” my teeth were chattering, I was shaking so hard.

“Insane? How astute.”

“Is she paying you from the grave?” Did it really matter?

“No, this is pro bono. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with the new CEO of Intex.”

I almost grabbed him, but thought better of it.

“Wait.”

He paused, turning his head to me.

If he hadn’t hacked my computer, than….

I felt my shoulder, where he’d sewed up my coat. The lapel. I checked both to be sure, then tore off my coat and threw it on the piano. I ripped the stitches out and reached in.

All the while, he watched me, unmoving.

I pulled out a wire. Attached was a tiny microphone, it was barely bigger than a grain of rice.

“You didn’t hack my computer, you bugged me.”

“Very perceptive. Mr. Conway.”

I lost it.

“You fucking monster!” I practically screamed, nearly lunging for him. His eyes widened and he took the barest of a step back. I saw him inhale sharply. Then he was blank again.

“You were using me this entire fucking time, weren’t you?” My head was splitting with anger.

“I do what I have to do.” He was speaking softly, looking away. I couldn’t see his face in this light with his hat in the way.

“After everything we went through, it was all just a ruse to get me to do your intelligence work!” I thought I was going to throw up, “I should have just fucking left you there!”

He lifted his head to face me, “You really should have.”

He was gone.

I sat down at the piano, putting my face in my hands. I did my best to steady my breathing. I couldn’t stop hyperventilating or shaking. With extreme effort, I managed to light up a smoke.

_…Wish I could say I was immune._

If Hightower killed Coachwhip, who seemed to be about as legit as Rooke or anybody else in this town, it would be on my conscience. After that bang up job Hightower did alienating me from them, it would be unlikely they’d listen to a word I said. I couldn’t warn them.

I smoked that cigarette down to the filter, rubbed my eyes from the smoke, and put it out on the lid of the piano.

I rushed out the back, my mind spinning as I put my coat back on. In a one-on-one fight, I was probably no match.  I considered trying to connect to Coachwhip and warn her anyway, but I realized I didn’t have time.

I couldn’t have two people die on my watch.

I ran toward Intex without a single plan in my head.

 

 


	10. The Bringdown

I already knew that it’d be impossible for me to jump high enough to head him off with the head start he had. The doors were already kicked down before I got there. It was after hours, thank God, so the only people I’d have to worry about were security. The professionals had been shot once in the chest. In my mind’s eye, I could see Hightower kicking down the door and quietly dispatching each one, never breaking step.

I looked at the crosslink. Everything had already been rewired to let him into the Coachwhip's office; that would make this a little easier. His dedication to his work was awe-inspiring. That kind of dedication to nearly anything else would have been admirable.

A horrible thought shot through my chest.

_Am I jealous?_

I ran into the elevator. The vault door to Gessler’s old office opened as soon as I was on the floor. I ran like the furies were on my heels.

I slid under the vault door just as it closed, right behind Hightower. He turned. That blank face again. Like he wasn’t there. Possessed by something.

I raised my pistol to his face. He blinked.

"Conway?!" Hightower looked at me, confused. He seemed downright bizarre, unreal even. He put his foot down on my dropshot, between my knees. A quick, simple gesture and his heel glowed red, cementing him to whatever it touched. It would take a tank to move either one of us.

“Well, this is awkward.” He kept his pistol on me, wary.

I had my pistol on him.

“You drop your broomhandle and walk away and I’ll pretend this didn’t happen.” I offered. I considered losing the dropshot, but from this high off the ground, I wouldn’t survive a defenestration if things got ugly.

_Pearls before swine._

“No, you drop _your_ pistol, walk out that door, and let me do my job.”

_Dammit, Dammit, Dammit. Hightower, give me a fucking excuse._

Why did I want one?

 _He is going to blow your fucking brains out, you stupid fucking idiot._ My brain was screaming.

_Only he hasn’t._

I counted my heartbeats.

My voice was weak with honesty, “I don’t want to shoot you.”

He gave me one of those mean, low chuckles, shaking his head, “I don’t want to shoot you, either.”

I grabbed that line and held it. I had an idea.

I raised my pistol to the ceiling and fired off my last shot. The noise in reverberated throughout the building and left my ears ringing.

Hightower’s face went white and he turned away from me to kick down the door and run to her office. I ran after him, but his legs were longer and he reached her office before I did. He kicked down the door, gun blazing. He was just in time to see Sawscale grab Coachwhip and hurl themselves out the window.

He howled like a wounded animal, firing off shots at the orange blur that was vanishing into the night.

He stalked angrily out of the office. He turned to me, furious, and pointed his Mauser right at my face, “You son of a bitch…!”

_Richard, you have really done it this time._

I saw his aim dip lower, toward my feet, and I lunged just as he got a shot off. The distance between us closed in the split second it took for him to holster his weapon. I aimed the butt of my pistol at his temple and our forearms met. He twisted his arm out, getting under elbow, and grabbed my tie. I saw him straighten his back and his face vanished between the brim of his hat and the top of his collar. Without his face showing, he was much easier to attack. He yanked me off balance and kept his arm straight to keep my right arm from swinging while he clocked me a few times in the jaw.

I changed direction and socked him in the gut, then head-butted him a few times. He let go of me and I felt his foot connect with my shins and I was airborne. I caught the floor with my upper back and used the momentum to spring forward, catching his chest with the gatecrashers. I got to my feet to see him fly into the wall behind him, losing his hat. He snarled at me, dipped, and then put it back on his head.

Facing enemies, his face was always blank, cold. This was harder to place, a mix of rage and jubilation, like he was frustrated, _but having fun_.

I didn't have much time to think about it before I noticed he had clung to the wall and was now coming right for me, hushcrackers ready to send me seven stories down. I was ready for him this time and jumped last second, sticking myself to the ceiling.

Hightower swore as he dug his heels into the ground, sliding to a stop like a base runner. He used his hand to change direction and crouched there, seething, waiting for me to land. I took the bait and jumped for him. We connected at the chest and he used the momentum to toss me. I landed on my feet and swung for him again. He caught my haymaker with his forearm and tried for my tie again. I caught his wrist and swung low for the ribs. He jumped back and got me with a straight kick. Red sparks exploded between us as I blocked with hushcrackers and twisted his leg.

I felt him twist and his toe connect with my head and the world flashed white, then red, then black. I stumbled.

The second time he jumped for me, I spun around and got him in the kidneys with a roundhouse, a lucky shot. He stumbled into the glass, not breaking it. He pushed off and caught me in the shoulder with one of those spinning kicks. The first kick connected, but I ducked under the second one, kicked my leg out, and charged.

This time, the seven-story defenestration was my doing. The air was strangely beautiful with the glass catching the light and sparkling in the air around us as we seemed to inch toward the ground. The glass cut into our exposed skin like razors, making tiny blood splatters on their surfaces like some sort of morbid Seurat painting. As we fell, I had a firm grip on his shoulders and he my wrists.

He actually managed to roll me in the air while I was distracted and my back hit the ground and his head hit my chest, just like when we first met. He was sitting on my hips, holding me down with one hand and punching me with the other. I swept his arm away and head-butted his nose. He screamed and fell off of me. I heard him getting up, but his blood was in my eyes and I couldn't see. I felt around for him, getting to my feet. I could hear his feet scraping the glass and concrete, avoiding me.

"Hightower, you son of a bitch!" I yelled, wiping the blood from my eyes, "How long have you been following me?!"

"Since Gessler was the CEO.” He was smiling wide, “I just take opportunities where I find them.”

"You going fucking kill me?!" I demanded.

“I don’t think I can.”

I could see again and I threw myself at him. He held me back with his legs, so all I could hit was his gut. I tried to make the gut-punches count, but they didn't seem to faze him at all.

Out of fucking nowhere, he sucker punched me in the head, catching the top of my forehead. He hissed and clutched his hand while I held my head. The dropshots probably did a lot to protect us from actually hurting each other too bad, but our faces were still exposed. Bits of glass and metal stuck to us, we probably had even more in our skin, working the blood out, but I didn't feel it. He finally kicked me off and rolled to his feet. We circled one another like animals.

“You’re a monster.” I snarled.

He would just not stop smiling. This wasn’t even close to what he could do. He was playing with me.

I lunged for him again, but he shoved me away. We were fighting in the Intex parking lot, tossing each other along and throwing each other into cars, lampposts, trees, whatever got in our way, really. He slammed me into the back window of some poor sap's car, crushing the glass. He had me in a cross-collar choke, which he used to slam me a few times.

I couldn’t help but notice he was avoiding my shoulder.

"You got an innocent girl framed and almost got me to take the fall for a murder!" I growled at him. I spat blood into his eyes and he pulled away to wipe his face. I tried swinging again, but he sidestepped out of my way.

“I didn’t mean to do any of that. It was just business.” He stopped smiling, “You killed more people than you avenged, you know."

I didn’t have anything to say to that.

I was still tired and slowing down, but I still pushed him into the car. He hit it at an angle and knocked the mirror off, stumbling to the sidewalk. Apparently, he was getting tired, too. I sat on his hips, holding him down.

I was panting and trying to catch my breath. My arms dangled uselessly in front of me while his were tucked up to protect himself.

“I’m never going to stop, Conway. Not until they’re dead.” His eyes sparkled, “You’ll have to either kill me or curb your jealousy.”

I roared and swung at him. He caught my wrist, then clocked me in the mouth, knocking me off of him. Rather than pounce, he stood up, stumbled, and then offered his hand. The sweat in his eyes must have stung and made them glassy, because his irritated eyes stood out like neon against all that red and black.

I looked up at him, holding my mouth. For a moment, I wasn't seeing the equipment or the colors, I just saw my friend. I grabbed his hand and let him yank me up.

His forehead caught mine in an enthusiastic head butt that knocked me back to the ground.

Pain and fury gave me my second wind and I was on my feet, kicking off to deliver a diving punch. I caught his ribs, making him stumble. He turned on his heel and tapped me in the chin, then elbowed my good shoulder. I caught his arm and yanked him in close, shovel hooking where I could. I felt him lean on me and his breath on my chest. He kneed me in the gut and we both grabbed for each other around the shoulders, foreheads together, supporting one another in a strange sort of hug. We were stumbling along to someplace from alternatively leaning on one another.

"Is...is your name really Richard?" He asked.

"...Yeah?"

He chuckled, then licked the blood from his nose, "You’re adorable, you know that?”

I screamed and punched him off of me. He stumbled, still laughing. I tackled him to the ground, fists flying. He rolled me, then yanked me to my feet and held me up by my tie, fist and eyebrows raised. He kept chuckling, but the fist was a clear warning. I grabbed his arms and pushed him into a tree.

I held him there by his elbows, panting and furious. We stared at each other, my face in a snarl and his in a smirk.

"Stop smiling," I warned him.

“You don’t find this funny?”

“I fucking hate you.”

“You don’t hate me; you’re just mad.”

“No, I think I really hate you.”

He grabbed my head and pulled our foreheads together so that all I could see was his unblinking, burning neon eyes.

“Then shoot me.” He was practically begging.

Even getting shot in the chest with an arrow wasn’t as intense as this, “I’m, uh, out of bullets.”

He blinked, then frowned in disbelief, “…You’re fucking serious.”

“They’re not that easy to get these days!” I backed off, and my heart finally started slowing down.

“You did not come prepared for this.”

“No, I did not.”

We stood there a moment, catching our breath.

I wasn’t sure how long we stood like that.

I narrowed my eyes.

“Who the fuck are you?”

He raised his hand, “I hear something.”

I heard the distinct sound of an air cartridge being loaded.

We looked at each other.

_Sawscale._

“Run.” Hightower pushed me behind a car.

They now sported an eyepatch over their right eye, from when Hightower had expressed deep concern for my lungs.

“Oh…Hightower….” They said in a sing-song voice, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

They saw Hightower first and without aiming, fired off an arrow. Hightower dropped to the ground. The arrow smashed through the windshield of a car.

Someone had updated the air pressure of that weapon.

“Hey, Mr. Conway, you come on out now with your hands up and I promise I won’t do nothing. Coachwhip just want to talk to you.”

“Yeah, right.” I muttered under my breath.

“Now, Mr. Conway, you know that if I got to come looking for you, I’m bringing an ass whooping.” They warned, spitting on the ground.

“Hightower, wha-“He jumped after Sawscale and kicked them in the back. Sawscale bumped their head into a street light and stumbled, cursing. They grabbed Hightower around by the shoulder and tried to buttstroke them with the XRECP-15. Hightower blocked his forearm, then punched Sawscale in the mouth.

Sawscale tried backing away for distance, but Hightower stayed on them. It was Hightower’s killing look against Sawscale’s unbridled joy.

I saw Hightower’s hand on the barrel of the XRECP-15, holding it down or trying to rip it out of their hand, shoving Sawscale toward the building. Sawscale shoved the heel of their hand into Hightower’s nose. He grabbed their wrist, spun them around, and then pushed them against the building.

_Now would be a good time to run, Richard._

I saw Hightower/Boomslang’s car and ran to it.

Sawscale hyperjumped, taking Hightower with them, and kicked him onto the roof of the very car I was trying to steal. I smashed in a back window and unlocked the doors.

He bounced off the roof and landed on the pavement, stunned. Sawscale stalked after him, raising the XRECP-15.

“ _Adios, amigo!”_

I grabbed Hightower’s bowling ball, came around the back of the car, and threw it.

It smashed into Sawscale’s gut, precisely where the open coat offered no protection, taking them to the ground.

“What the fuck, hoss?!” they gasped.

_What the fuck indeed._

Hightower didn’t waste a second. He got to his feet, picked up the bowling ball and raised it over his head to smash Sawscale’s.

I ran between them, “Hightower, wait!”

He looked at me.

A police car rolled into the parking lot, sirens blaring. It was followed by several more.

About fucking time.

“Shit!” Hightower hid in his car. I stood there over Sawscale.

“Can this get any fucking worse?” They wondered aloud, weakly.

Mayfield stepped out of the passenger side of one of the vehicles and ran to me.

I held my hands up.

He pointed his pistol at me, “Hands on the ground.”

I slowly got to my knees, putting my open palms on the pavement. Another officer rushed over to take care of Agent Sawscale.

Keeping a pistol on my back, he found my wallet and opened it.

“Richard Conway?”

“That’s me.”

“ _You’re_ Richard Conway?”

“The one and only.”

“Huh. So we meet at last.” He removed his pistol.

“We meet at first.” I said before I remembered that it was generally a bad idea to smart off to cops.

“It’s okay, boys. He’s with me.”

“Thanks.” I stood up. He returned my wallet.

“Hell happened here?”

“I’ll get to that in a second. First, I need to talk to you about that racetrack.”

I walked him away from the car and gave him a recap of the last week.

“Huh, so you think someone sent that guy to knock Coachwhip off?”

I looked at Sawscale, who was fuming up at me in cuffs.

“Yeah, probably.”

“And who the hell is this?”

I surprised myself: “That’s the assassin.”

“You lying Stockholm-addled bastard!” They lunged at me, but were held down by two police officers and dragged to their feet. They cocked their head back and spat at me just as the police yanked them back. The tobacco juice stopped short of my face, but landed on the shoulder and arm.

Mayfield looked at me, then looked at Sawscale. Then he very calmly and deliberately cracked his pistol across their head, knocking off their hat. Sawscale went limp.

“Sorry about that.” He said, turning back to me. He offered me a tissue.

“It’s fine.” I wiped up the tobacco juice.

“Did they do all that to you?” He motioned to my generally disheveled appearance.

“I don’t want to press charges.”

“Well, all right.” Mayfield looked like he wanted to say something, but decided against it, “I’ll give you a hundred bucks for the data you lifted from Coachwhip’s computer.”

“Sold.”

As the police left, I walked toward the subway in a daze. I almost didn’t notice Hightower catching up to me. He had changed his clothes and was now wearing a second-hand bowling shirt from the “Alley Cats” and his newsboy cap.

“Why did you protect me?”

It took me a minute to answer, “I don’t know.”

We walked in silence, considering. I think I made him uncomfortable.

He tapped me on the back, “Fuck it, dude. Let’s go bowling.”

He was a complete monster, yet I followed him anyway.


	11. Clandestine Mental Breakdown

I was grateful for our heavy dropshot coats; it could have been worse.

Hightower stopped at my apartment so I could get cleaned up and out of my equipment. He didn’t apologize for beating up on me like he did, but I suppose he felt I deserved it. We just avoided the subject entirely, afraid. He was very insistent that he saw my shoulder before we left, to make sure the stitches hadn’t popped.

“You might be able to get these removed soon.”

We sat down at Sunset Lanes, in the corner, looking sketchy as hell, sipping our drinks. My eyes darted around, suspicious. I didn’t see anybody I knew. A strange sort of peace settled in. Everything felt normal, except for an undercurrent of danger and a foreboding we both tried to ignore.

I picked up a house ball.

“Conway, everybody and their mother uses those balls. They’re filthy.”

“I can’t use yours, I’m _normal_ handed.” I said. He smiled.

“Stop looking so suspicious, nobody comes here; it’s why I like it.”

We ordered beer and a pitcher of ice water.

He pulled a bottle of absinthe out of his bowling bag.

“Are you allowed to have outside drinks?”

“No, of course not.”

I watched quietly between sets, mostly fascinated at how many of those things he could put away. He’d pour a jigger or two of absinthe in a plastic cup, add a few sugar packets, and then douse it with ice water until the drink turned cloudy. Then he’d stir and kick it back as hard as he could. After that, he’d roll a set. Rinse, repeat.

“Have you seen anybody about your drinking problem?”

“Hush.” He was starting to slur by the fifth set. By the next game, he tossed his ball into an adjacent lane. I quietly cleaned up.

It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. The people in our line of work prided ourselves on our ability to keep our emotions in check, forget our principles, and keep a level head. All that mental strain worked its way into all of us eventually; we either threw the spy identity away to live normal lives or we adopted self-destructive habits, like gambling or drinking.

I was clearly seeing the clandestine version of a mental breakdown.

We had taken a serious misstep with each other and knew it; the fight we had only removed the initial tension.

I wondered why I was bothering with taking Hightower at anything other than face value. He was a professional murderer with a grudge against other professional murderers. And he had dragged me into it for no other reason than he needed my help.

I prepared myself a glass.

I had also killed people. Innocent people who were just doing their jobs.

I thought about how you could look at something as complex as encryption software and never realize how little it took to corrupt it. I thought about how one could look at a rock-hard diamond and forget how they were shaped by striking them at just the right angle. I was a criminal like him and the rest of the agents and Gessler and all the rest, the bottom of the societal food chain.

Because of me, Katie Collins was dead.

No, in order to commit a crime, you needed intent. I couldn’t have known that Collins was going to be set up to take the fall. And if Hightower was as low as the other agents, he would have killed Boomslang and let me bleed to death. Instead, he’d gone through the trouble to get me patched up. And even made a cake to make up for it.

Collins’s death still kept me up at night.

There is honor amongst thieves.

He fixed himself another drink, polishing off the bottle. As soon as he was done, I grabbed the glass and downed it in one gulp. His eyes locked on mine in a glassy glare, the fire in them unfixed.

“Let’s get you back.” I said, standing up and reaching over him.

He stumbled as he rose, the ice shivered in the pitcher, and I got an arm around him, pulling him into my hip, walking him outside. I stored everything in his car and walked us to the subway.

He wasn’t any harder to lead than anybody else I’d taken home drunk before, but leading the blitzed was never easy and Hightower was considerably taller than me. I didn’t exactly have my wits about me myself, the alcohol sloshed angrily in my stomach and I felt it sweating through my skin. My chest was an oven, storing all my warmth and leaving my limbs bitter. My eyes watered and burned.

I was definitely not okay to drive, not that I could do so legally, but Hightower was worse. I piled him into the subway with me, keeping him propped up on my shoulder, hoping to God he didn’t start puking on me and that I myself could keep from puking. He was oddly quiet for a drunk save for the occasional chuckle and clung to my shirt with his face in my neck. I tipped his hat over his face and he chuckled and spread out on the seat, mumbling. I started to wonder if it were possible for us to be within ten feet of each other and not look shifty.

I was getting the spins and it wouldn’t be long before I passed out myself. I checked the subway line to make sure we were headed back to my place, but the lines were making the spins worse.

After a few wrong trains, we finally made it back to my apartment. I kicked my door open and swung Hightower into my flat like the world’s worst swing partner. He giggled and laced his fingers behind my neck, swinging with me and bringing the two of us to the floor.

His hands were still behind my neck, us staring at each other, when he said, “You know I didn’t kill Collins, right?”

I blinked, “What?”

“I didn’t kill her. I didn’t even know she was dead until Gessler told me.”

It was still a tender subject with me. I sighed, “Let’s get some sleep, okay?”

With his hands still around my neck, I pulled him to his feet and pushed him onto my couch. He passed out.

If he was going to keep this up, I might have to start charging rent. My mobile buzzed. I took it out, not wanting to take any more jobs for a while.

                Sawscale: Last Chance

                Coachwhip would like to thank you for the warning by giving you another chance. Ready to get his hooks out of you?

                Pay: $0

I stepped outside to answer their call, walking down the block, past the Rooke office. “You have some nerve calling me.”

“Didn’t your momma ever tell you not to fuck with wildlife?”

“Shouldn’t you be using your phone call to get a hold of your boss?”

“I can’t think of a worst sweetheart than Hightower.”

“If you’re calling just to mock me, this conversation is over.”

“Not at all, good buddy. I’m here to help.”

“Because you have been tremendously helpful so far.”

“Mr. Conway, you drunk?”

“Yes.” I hissed.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to blow your buzz,” They sounded legitimately sorry, “I won’t be long. I’ve seen my share of bad relationships, but none quite as bad as yours.”

“Get to the point.”

“Coachwhip says offer’s still on the table. You help us get you out of a tremendously bad relationship and we make you our own. She wants to see you.”

“What makes you think I want to see you or her?”

“Fair enough. But you do want rid of a certain bete noire, don’t you?”

“No. He has his moments.”

“He terrifies you; he takes advantage of you.”

“Better the devil you know.”

“You can’t think when you feeling, hoss, but if the guy that killed one of my clients asked to partner up, I’d have told him to go fuck himself. Ain’t you in enough trouble because of him?”

“Maybe.”

“Right now, you’re seeing your bae as two different people. The one that’s helpful and friendly in his own way and sticks his neck out for you…and the one that’s setting you on crazy missions and manipulating you to hurt people you don’t even know. You got to remember that there ain’t no ‘Good Hightower’ and ‘Bad Hightower’; they the same person. You want one, you gotta live with the other. Has he even told you his real name?”

“Has he ever told you?”

“Would you be jealous if he did?” I could practically hear their smile.

I was silent.

“I’ll give you the time and place for a meeting, and you decide whether you want to meet us or not, deal?”

“How do I know this isn’t a trap? You and your boss can meet me.”

“Mr. Conway, you set up a meeting and we won’t be getting within three blocks of you without Hightower trying to cut us down.”

“Not my problem.”

“Mr. Conway….”

I compromised, “Meet me in Innisfree.”

Innisfree was a small town about an hour away by bus.

“Innisfree it is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta break out of jail.”

They hung up.

I sighed. Everything they said was true. It didn’t matter that Hightower _could_ be a nice guy. He wasn’t one. It didn’t matter what his intent was, his intent was to kill. It didn’t even matter if he was trying to change, he couldn’t change enough.

It didn’t matter what my intent was, either. Through my actions, Katie Collins was dead.

I returned to my apartment and stared at Hightower, passed out.

I could smother him and call Coachwhip and everything would be back to normal.

There is honor amongst thieves.

I went to bed.

 

* * *

 

 

Hightower was still asleep when I left for the bus. I knew that it probably wasn’t a good idea to leave him alone in there, but at this point, I was too emotionally exhausted to care.

I had to take a bus out of town to Innisfree, then walk to the agreed location, a grocery store halfway across town. I saw their motorcycle and stopped. The fiberglass was shredded from when they had crashed. There were two helmets sitting on it. They had to be nearby. I enjoyed a cigarette, leaning against the wall.

I let them think they had the jump on me. They came up from behind me with a hunting knife ready to lop off one of my limbs. I twisted away last minute and sparks burst from the wall where the hunting knife hit the wall. With my forearm, I pinned Sawscale’s arm to the wall and punched them once in the chin. They tried to jerk away, grinning, but I kept my hand on their wrist, twisting their arm.

My voice was level, “You’re going to have to stop that because it’s getting old.”

Sawscale grinned maniacally. They weren’t after maiming me, I figured; this was just foreplay. I thought for a second they were going to try spitting in my face again. Instead, they just said, “Oh, I can see why he’s so sweet on you.”

“It’s nothing like that.” I let them go.

“Oh please, if he weren’t so set, you’d be dead three or four times over by now. Time was, he’d kill someone for inconveniencing him.” They adjusted their hat and sheathed their knife.

My blood chilled.

“Jeet yet?” Sawscale snapped me out of my fugue.

“Excuse me?”

“Jeet yet?”

“Jeet…yet…? Oh! ‘Have I eaten recently.’?”

“Yeah, jeet yet?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

They tossed me a helmet and put one on themselves, letting their hat hang over the back from the stampede string around their neck. They’d learned their lesson. We drove around the town, presumably to ensure we weren’t being followed. Even with my arms around their waist, I couldn’t tell what Sawscale’s gender was.

It was really none of my business, anyway.

They drove us to what was probably only country/western bar I had ever been in. I wasn’t sure if they picked it because it was easy to find, or because they really were some sort of unironic cow…person spy.

They took me to a back room for employees only.

“Wait here.” They ordered and entered the room.

I stared at the door, waiting with a dull ache in my chest. I wanted to run and take the next bus back to East Point. As soon as Sawscale was gone, I contemplated how much cooler it would have been for me to beat them up and bust in there, tossing them in first. Because how hardboiled would that have been?

The door opened and I saw Sawscale’s good eye peek out, “Come on in.”

Coachwhip sat at a desk, counting money. She was immaculate, dressed to the nines in a white suit and a large elaborate hat, also white.

“Mr. Conway.” She put the money down and offered her hand. I shook it across the desk, “please, sit down. Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Only if I can have one, too.”

Sawscale pulled a shiny, paisley cigarette case and produced two hand-rolled cigarettes for the both of us. They handed one to Coachwhip and one to me, lighting them for us. Then they sat down. The cigarettes were spicy and sweet and unlike anything I’d tasted before. I looked at Coachwhip smoking and remembered Hightower’s burn scars.

I sat in the chair looked around. This was clearly not her office, so I wondered about the actual owner. There were pictures of a family on the desk, none of the subjects bore even a passing resemblance to Coachwhip.

There were wine spritzers at the table. I took one. Sawscale took off their coat and sat beside the door, watching and occasionally spitting dip into a soda can.

We sat in silence. Finally, Sawscale said, “Well, hoss, this is your meeting. What do you want?”

“Now, Sawscale, be nice.” Coachwhip’s voice was sweet, “We’ve all had a long week. Mr. Conway’s probably still reeling from last night.”

I grit my teeth and turned to Sawscale, “I’m sorry I hit you with a bowling ball. And got you thrown in jail. And burned your eye out with a cigarette.”

“Apologies accepted.” They tipped their hat and pointed at their bad eye, “Doc says I can take the eye patch off in a few days.”

“I also want to apologize for what happened to Boomslang.”

“It couldn’t be helped, I’m sure.” Coachwhip said, “I never authorized the two of them to capture you. I’m sure it was…educational for everyone involved.”

Sawscale looked intently at the floor, chewing their lip.

I wondered what would have happened if Coachwhip showed up that night.

These spies really didn’t have friends.

“Ah, muscadine blush.” Coachwhip took a glass and admired the pinkish color, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find muscadine wine this far north?”

My lip twitched. If I was supposed to be trying to work with them, why did I still feel like I was in enemy territory?

“I didn’t come here to discuss wine.” I said evenly.

A hunting knife flew in front of my face and into the dart board on the other side of the wall. Coachwhip and I stared at Sawscale, whose hand was still suspended from the throw. I noticed it was bandaged from where Hightower had driven an arrow completely through. I also noticed a fresh cigarette burn on their wrist, scabbed over.

“Watch your manners with Coachwhip around me, slick. You on thin enough ice as is and I will be under it when it breaks.”

“Sawscale!” Coachwhip admonished them like they had told a dirty joke in front of company, “We have to let level heads prevail. We are very busy people as I’m sure Mr. Conway is as well.”

“I’m willing to help you get rid of Hightower.” I said.

“Shit, you wasn’t so willing last night. Even after he used you, you rube.”

_How did they know about that?_

“Sawscale, I will not have you making a running commentary every time Mr. Conway speaks.”

“Pardon me, ma’am.” They tipped their hat.

“It’s not Mr. Conway’s fault, after all. Our former Agent Diamondback does have a sort of demented charm to him. After all, he’s just doing to Mr. Conway what Hightower did to him.”

I inhaled sharply. I didn’t want to think that beating me up was Hightower’s way of showing _affection._

“Shit, I should have been Diamondback.” They folded their arms and sat up.

I couldn’t help it, “Why?”

“Diamondbacks are native to the southwestern United States. Sawscale vipers are native to India. Do I look Indian to you?”

I sighed, “Does it matter?”

“Nah, they just names.”

“Fine, I’ll take…” I shrugged, “Agent Black Mamba.”

Coachwhip just smiled, “Agent Black Mamba is on another mission. The codenames are assigned by oldest vacancy first. You will be Agent Diamondback.”

“Fine. I don’t care. I just want my life back. You were right, he’s dangerous.”

Sawscale laughed unpleasantly, “He’s no better than he should be.”

“The man you met is a somewhat reformed version, if you can believe that. I remember when he ended a hostage situation by murdering all the hostages. He got his start here, under the old management. He was still wet behind the ears, but just as cold and black-hearted as she. It was a match made in hell.”

“He did her work with the enthusiasm of a man who’d found God.” Sawscale piped up, “Most people got a black streak to them, but if either two of them had a human streak I never saw it.”

Coachwhip nodded, “So, you can see where we’d want to find new management.”

“The big boss really was called Hightower? That doesn’t make thematical sense.”

“Hightower was her _real_ surname;” She explained, “She originally ran the organization out of a snake farm, a reptile house, which is where the codenames come from.”

“Gessler said you betrayed her.”

“God rest his soul, poor bastard.” I heard Sawscale mutter.

“That’s one way to put it. I think of it as overthrowing an oppressive regime.”

The smoke was getting thick in here.

“Now, he could have just shut up and taken to the new management,” Sawscale explained, “little beaten up but wiser for the experience, but he wouldn’t have it. Said all sorts of things; said he quit, said he’d get even.”

“And you don’t quit.” I muttered.

“It was enough for us to take seriously.”Coachwhip replied, “We caught him in Allegheny but he gave us the slip.”

“And he’s been murdering your members like it’s his hobby ever since.”

“I certainly can’t see him doing it for love or any _human_ reason.” Coachwhip said, “He’s certainly not making any money off of it.”

“It probably _is_ his hobby, knowing him.” Sawscale shrugged, “Some people collect stamps; he murders people. I dunno, maybe his TV’s broke or something.”

I snorted.

“It’s all right to laugh, hoss. Sometimes it’s all you can do.”

I kept my voice level, “I’ll help you. Just tell me what I have to do.”

“We have to ensure your heart is in the right place, first.” Coachwhip said, “Why do you want him dead?”

“I was supposed to kill him months ago, when he killed a client of mine. But….”

“But?”

“He didn’t seem so bad once I met him. Not bad as murderers go.”

Coachwhip laughed, “But having a deranged shadow does wear on you after some time, doesn’t it?”

“It really does.”

“I will contact you with regards to your next mission.” Coachwhip smiled pleasantly and offered her hand. I took it.

“Welcome aboard, Agent Diamondback.”


	12. The Freaks

I woke up sometime the next afternoon, still drunk, still in the clothes from the night before.

This wasn’t new to me.

I was in Conway’s apartment. Again. I should really consider forwarding my mail here, I came here so often. I thought to check on that sometime, see if I was still getting mail. I wondered if I was legally dead.

Probably.

I don’t like getting drunk as much as I like getting others drunk, but after that emotional rollercoaster, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Serves me right for being so flaky around Conway. He was a bad influence.

Had anybody else interrupted my mission, they’d be lucky if I put them in the hospital.

Most of the time, I’d put them in the morgue. You can’t let people walk all over you like that.

But, Conway was understandably upset and in hindsight I wasn’t exactly forthright with him. In fact, I was pretty much an asshole. Old habits die hard, after all. He was vicious when he wanted to be; I hadn’t expected that. Fist-fighting with him made me feel like my old self again.

Now, that was a scary thought.

I got up and made coffee, checked the time. The sun was still up.

“Conway? I made coffee.”

No answer.

I walked to his bedroom and quietly rapped on the door, “Conway?”

I checked the news. Charley Norwood, AKA Agent Sawscale, had escaped. If that was their real name, I’d eat my hat. I had to hand it to the ungendered bastard, they had twice the aliases to choose from.

I looked at Conway’s coat rack. His equipment was gone. I tried calling him and it went straight to voicemail.

It was too early to be on a mission; Conway never started a mission until after the sun set. My keys were on the coffee table. I grabbed them and left.

 

* * *

 

 

Even with the window smashed out, nobody tried lifting my car. Likely, someone really did try, but saw the hypertrousers and backed off. I changed in the bathroom and caused some visible flinching from the patrons as I walked out. Nobody said anything to me, least of all the employees. See the above comment regarding what happened to people that interrupted me during a mission.

I drove around to his usual haunts and missions. Nothing. I admit, it was akin to what a stalker would do, but stalking was in my job description. I really wish he hadn’t found that transmitter.

Yes, it was an asshole move on my part, and I felt bad about that, but it really was for his own good after what happened to Boomslang. I had to keep close to keep him from doing that stupid shit. He was way too trusting to be a spy. Hell, if someone killed one of my clients, then asked to partner up, I would have told them to go fuck themselves. Then put them in an ambulance or a hearse out of principle.

I remembered being a more forgiving man in the past. Lot of good that did me.

Conway was nowhere in East Point. I parked to make a phone call to Rooke. Her receptionist picked up.

Before they could rattle off what they were supposed to say, I interrupted clearly, “Stopped Clock.”

“One moment, sir.”

“Agent Hightower.” She sounded like I was a bug she was indulging before she squashed me.

“I will debase myself in a manner of your choosing. Conway’s missing.”

“Could he be on a mission?”

“ _Doctor Rooke._ ”

“You realize that you’re a stalker, right?”

My patience with Rooke was considerably shorter than it was with Conway, “Agent Sawscale has escaped jail. Conway is missing. I am _understandably upset_.”

“Meet me in my office.”

She disconnected.

 

* * *

 

 

I couldn’t help but respect Rooke for what she was. I could definitely see her doing my job if it came down to it. I also liked her office. Natural woods and real plants. There was something to be said for that.

“You’ve lost Conway.” She told me over her desk. It was almost sundown.

“Yes.”

“Where’d you lose him? He’s not a set of car keys and it’s not as if he’s inconspicuous, is it?

“I suspect he was picked up by our friends.”

“What makes you say that?”

Sawscale is not in East Point, either.”

“And Coachwhip?”

“Is better at hiding from me than Sawscale.”

“I haven’t hired him out for anything.”

“And the police chief wouldn’t hire him to do anything outside the city.”

Our eyes met.

“Where would they take him?”

“Any number of places. They know they can’t meet him without meeting me in this town.” My lip twitched. I almost smiled.

Damn, Conway was a bad influence.

“You’re probably going about this wrong. Conway left with equipment. They’ve extended a peace offering to him in the past. He ruined your mission to kill Coachwhip twice. He probably left with them willingly.”

The idea fell on me like a curse. I sat down, but kept my face blank.

“…Why would he do that?” I asked the both of us.

“You haven’t been the nicest partner. You killed one of his clients, you recently killed one of his sources, you almost killed him, you’ve betrayed his trust, and you’ve been withholding information because you’re terrified of him. He’s also the only agent that’s ever held his own against you, so he’s also valuable to them. Have I missed anything?”

“Shit.” I was staring intently at my boots, “Fuck.”

“Indeed.” Rooke folded her arms, “You really should have reconsidered Gessler.”

I put my forehead on two fingers to keep wrinkles from forming on my forehead, “I know. I know. But, Gessler was a shithead; I was _really_ _hoping_ he’d understand that one.”

“From his perspective, you’re just wantonly murdering people.”

“I don’t get called down on choirboys, doctor.”

“And choirboys aren’t generally good sources, Hightower. If you were just open about why you do what you do, he never would have had a reason to see Gessler.”

“You can understand why I wouldn’t want to tell that around.”

“I don’t know all the little details, Agent Hightower. I just know that you were kicked out for siding with the wrong boss.”

“That’s more or less what happened. Should I have gotten permission from him first?”

Fault me for being genuinely curious.

“Yes, Hightower, that would have been a good place to start. You’re supposed to work _with_ a partner and trade information. Hard to do that when he doesn’t trust you because he doesn’t even _know your name.”_

I shrugged, “I’m just Agent Hightower.”

Was it really that important?

Trying to think like someone other than myself, it came to me that it probably was pretty important. The old gang only ever used codenames and look how we turned out.

 _Look how_ you _turned out._ I thought bitterly.

“That works for the other agents, the ones you’re trying to kill. It doesn’t go over so well with _normal_ people.”

We were running out of time, “He won’t be so normal when Coachwhip’s through with him.”

I hated doing this, I really did. But I needed Rooke’s help, so I slipped out of my coat and pulled my shirt up over my shoulder to show her what I normally didn’t show anybody.

Rooke’s reaction was somewhat surprising for her, which was what I’d consider normal from anybody else. She reacted with a mix of pity and disgust.

I flinched as she came near me.

“Your hands are cold.” I explained.

“I haven’t touched you.” Her hands were away from me, “Coachwhip did this?”

“The cigarette burns are hers, at least. Some of the knife marks were done on her orders. This bullet, too.” I pointed to the badly healed one.

“Dear God, why?”

“They cut away all the parts of you that aren’t like them. If you fuck something up, then they cut away more. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sawscale got a hold of Conway out of desperation.”

I pulled down my shirt.

Rooke’s face said it all.

“The XRECP-15.” She finally said.

“What about it?”

“Tell me the truth. Who shot Conway?”

“Boomslang. He’s dead. Conway killed him.”

“Would they want revenge?”

“No, it’s not their way. No profit. If anything, Sawscale took the fall for that one.”

“Did you steal it?”

“No, but not for lack of trying. Boomslang beat me to it. And shot Conway. That was basically the entire mission. Not my proudest moment.”

“I can see where showing compassion wouldn’t be one of your proudest moments.” She remarked coldly, “Mayfield returned the prototypes to me when they picked Sawscale up. We should call the police and file a missing persons report first.”

I frowned, “We can’t call the police. This isn’t exactly legal.”

She pointed at me, “ _You_ can’t call the police. I will. In the meantime, I’m going to hire you on to keep the heat off you. Agent ID.” She held out her hand.

The concept of having to register as a spy baffled me, but it occasionally proved to be useful if you were caught breaking and entering from a mission. Depending on what you did, you usually got away with just a fine from your parent agency and the hiring party took the heat. Of course, it also meant that whomever was hired as guards could shoot you with impunity.

I pulled it out of my wallet and handed it over. She read it.

“John Delores? Nice try. I want your _real_ agent ID.”

I pulled out another fake. She didn’t take it.

“Hightower.”

I growled in frustration, rolled my eyes, took off my hat, and pulled my original ID out of the sweatband; the one that had my authorized codenames (Hightower and Diamondback), affiliations (ISHTAR, East Pointe Free Agency), and (of course) my real legal name.

There were no rules about having fake agency IDs; it was almost encouraged, but you were supposed to keep your real one on you in case you needed it. She typed my ID number into some verification software.

“That’s a nice name. You should introduce yourself to Conway when this is all over.”

I felt my face heat up, “Maybe.”

The rest was all business, “You are now a contracted employee with Rooke Firearms. As an employee, you are not authorized to kill for any reason other than self-defense or defense of Rooke Firearm assets and will keep violence to a minimum. Should you collect any intelligence on your mission, it becomes property of Rooke Firearms. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“While on mission you are responsible for the safety of Rooke Firearms employees and will not allow harm to befall Rooke Firearms employees through either actions or inaction unless it contradicts my direct orders. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“All information you’ve given me has been recorded and will be verified for truthfulness and accuracy. At this time, is there anything you would like to add, change, or delete?”

“I am affiliated through ISHTAR through all the worst ways and if you call me Agent Diamondback or refer to me by any variation of my legal name, we’re finished.”

“Fair enough.”

“So. We’re working together now. Why are they in East Point?”

“Coachwhip likely sent her agents to steal my prototypes and muscle in what little is left of the lethal weapons market. She probably also wants the nonlethal variant for the same reason. You came here first, why are _you_ in East Point?”

“Because they’re in East Point. I found out through Krait. She’s dead now.”

“I have a feeling you and I are going to get along great.” I wasn’t sure if she was sarcastic or not.

“So, they’re trying to steal your designs.”

“Exactly. Right now, we are natural allies.”

“I will burn Intex to the ground, if you’d like.”

“Not now. First, we make sure Conway hasn’t been kidnapped. Though, if he really is working for them, what are you going to do?”

I didn’t have an answer for her.

“Let’s go.”

Rooke wasn’t about drive or ride around in my stolen car with its smashed window, so we took hers. The lady had standards. She made me drive.

“Christ, does anybody in this city know how to drive?!” I asked the sky as she tossed me her keys.

“Of course I can drive. But why would I? I have you for that sort of thing.”

I got in and adjusted the seat, “I figure he took the bus out of town if he wasn’t kidnapped.”

“We should also see if anybody saw two agents leave via motorcycle.”

“Bus stop?”

“Bus stop.”

* * *

 

I found myself pointing my pistol at some poor bastard’s head under the ticketing desk while Rooke reviewed security camera feeds.

“He payed in cash and took the bus out of town.” The man sobbed.

“Where did he go?” I demanded.

“He took the bus to Innisfree!”

“You hear that?” I looked up at Rooke. She was still watching the feed.

“I heard it. Did he go alone?”

“Answer the lady’s question.”

“Yes!” He practically screamed.

“Well, you did say that no agent could meet him here without you knowing.” She remarked, finally turning to me.

“We’re going to Innisfree.” I said.

“Watch your mouth, Agent. I’ll decide where we go.”

I bit my tongue. She didn’t leave me stewing for long.

“We’ll check Innisfree, because it’s the freshest lead, but then we’re going to the racetrack.”

“As your security specialist, I insist you bring a weapon.” I tried to sound professional, but probably came off as rude.

“I have a resolver.”

On the way to Innisfree, I gave her a rundown.

“Listen, I’m just going to go over this now. No agent in their right mind likes taking their clients on their missions. So far as security is concerned, _you_ take commands from _me_.”

“I’m listening.”

“Right now my job is, in your words, protect Rooke Firearms employees. So, if I get rough with you, that is: grab you, push you, pull you, carry you, tackle you, or otherwise manhandle your person, it’s because I’m doing my job.”

“You’re the specialist.” She sounded bored.

“You’d be amazed how many people think I’m getting fresh. If something happens and I have to grab you, keep as much of yourself inside my coat as you can and let me move you where I need to move you _however I need to do it_. The closer you are, the more likely it is that my protective gear will protect you, too. If I have to jump, I will have to carry you around my waist _for our protection_. On my back, you’re just a target. Just hold whatever position I put you in. It will look like we’re fucking. I don’t care if it makes you uncomfortable. I can survive long falls. You can’t.”

Rooke shot me a look, “God help you if you don’t tell that to every person you’re supposed to protect.”

“Don’t worry, I told Gessler the same thing. If I wasn’t so sure you were a target anyway, I’d have left you behind in East Point.”

Rooke held her hands over her heart in a mockery of a flattered expression, “You’re trying to protect this poor, innocent girl? How noble of you!”

“Just because you can make weapons doesn’t mean you can use them. Also, I need someone that can handle…political problems.”

“Political problems?”

“Problems that can’t be solved by killing the problem.”

“I should probably do the talking.”

“Anyway, I figure that the last place they’d hold a meeting is the bus stop.”

“They need a place where it doesn’t look unusual for people to hang out.”

“Bars?” Most of us had a drinking problem.

“Most likely. We’ll start asking around. It’s not like Conway’s inconspicuous.”

 

 

 


	13. The Mongoose and The Snake

Sawscale and I left together. We sat together in a hotel room, them at the desk, me at the bed.

"You ready for this, rookie?"

"No."

"It's okay. Everyone's nervous at first. I'll be there."

Because that was assuring.

"What happens once I'm in?"

"You get a monthly paycheck and commission for every mission we pick for you. You may have to travel, but we'll cover that."

"That doesn't sound so bad. What kind of missions?"

"Ones you'd be a good fit for, rookie. We ain't going send you to bump anybody off. Your hacking is more useful, anyway."

"Except for this one time."

"Rules are rules."

"Do I have to do every mission I'm sent?"

"No, but I wouldn't refuse too many missions. It makes you look bad."

"Why do you keep calling me 'rookie'? I'm not." I stared at their eyepatch.

"Because so far as I'm concerned, you ain't Agent Diamondback, you just the guy gunning for his name. You ain't Diamondback until you complete your mission. And we don't use real names. Period."

That sounded oddly loyal. Perhaps it was more for the person that _was_ Agent Diamondback, before they were enemies. I couldn't imagine that now-Hightower hadn't ever at least gotten along with his old compatriots.

“Phone, rookie." They held out their hand.

"You don't seem enthused." I handed it over.

"Shit, ain't my place to say. I'm just here to get you ready."  With their knife, they shucked the back case off and removed the battery. Then they pocketed the pieces.

"For what?"

They glared at me, "Your mission. You want to ride with us, you kill with us."

"I only want to stop Hightower."

"Lucky you. That's your mission. That's always the first mission. Until then, you're just a rookie."

"I'm a rookie until I kill somebody?"

They gave me a look like I was close, but not quite on the mark. They reached into a desk drawer and pulled out what looked like a sweatband.

"This is the clean sneak. It makes you vanish under crosslink. Give me your hat."

With some reservation, I handed it over.

They slipped it under the hatband that came with the hat. If I wasn't looking, I wouldn't be able to tell it was there. They handed it back to me, then held up their mobile with the crosslink app open. I saw only my own silhouette against the schematics. I put on the hat and I vanished. I did this several times to watch my avatar vanish and reappear.

"Neat. Now, what?"

"You lay low. We want you to be missed."

"Why?"

"I'm setting up a trap. A guy like Hightower's bound to come looking for you. He's...possessive like that."

"We aren't really dating."

"I know that, slick." They shot me a look, "I was fucking with you before."

"What makes you think he'll come for me?"

"I still think he’s at least a little sweet on you. Besides, _we_ have you. He takes everything we do as a personal attack."

"Because you killed the boss to whom he was loyal?"

"We did more than that. You forget, I used to work with the guy. We wasn't always on bad terms. I didn't like doing Hightower like that, but I wasn't keen on joining him either." They thoughtfully rubbed their bolo tie. I noticed it was a black calavera with marigold eyes.

I waited for them to elaborate, but no answer was forthcoming.

“You know he got me a cake when Boomslang shot me?”

Sawscale laughed, “Yeah, sometimes he bakes when he’s upset. When Copperhead got got, he made everyone cupcakes.”

“Did he write anything on them?”

“Nah, but he dyed ‘em black.”

“I really am sorry about Boomslang.”

Sawscale shrugged, “I am, too. But it is what it is.”

“Were you two close?”

“Kind of. He and Hightower didn’t see eye to eye on much, but I always thought he was a pretty cool guy once you got to know him.” They looked up at me, “You seem pretty cool, too, though.”

We played cards for the rest of the afternoon. I won most of the hands.

 

* * *

 

Coachwhip messaged Sawscale that night.

“Showtime.” Sawscale told me, checking their phone. They put my phone back together and turned it on. It buzzed angrily.

Apparently, I had missed several calls.

They went to my contacts and called Hightower, putting the mobile on speaker.

He answered on the first ring, "Rick?!"

Sawscale smiled, "If you want your friend to hear you, you're going to have to talk a lot louder than that."

Hightower was quiet for a while; finally, he said, “Remember when I promised you I would put as many holes in you as you put in me?"

"Shit, hell yeah, I remember that." Sawscale smiled wide.

"I'm coming to collect."

"Well, don't threaten me with a good time, _amigo._ Just don't forget we got your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend."

Sawscale gave a faux-confused look, as if Hightower could see their face, "Really? That mean I can have him?"

I heard him snarl something from far away, like he put the phone down.

Sawscale started laughing.

His voice was close to the phone, "I have his fucking phone pinged, you animal; I'm coming over."

"I've already set the table, partner. Wear something nice."

Sawscale hung up.

"Dear lord, have I missed him.” Sawscale looked at me, "Welp, he’s inbound, how you want to do this?"

“We’ll do this on the roof to minimize casualties.” I was starting to feel sick. I left for the roof. Sawscale followed me through the halls.

“Hey, don’t be nervous.” Sawscale put their hands on my shoulders, “You can do this. He’s tough, but he ain’t tougher than the both of us. As long as you’re the one that finishes him, it counts, all right? I was nervous when I did it, too.”

I wanted to ask about that, but I reconsidered.

“We’ve both gotten the best of him before. This won’t be too hard.” I said, opening the roof access door.

The night air was cold and felt good on my face. I felt like I did at the Pink Elephant, when Hightower had used me. I felt the healing cuts on my face, trying to steel myself.

Sawscale put another pinch of tobacco in their mouth. God. that was a gross habit.

“So, you going shoot him?”

“I lost my pistol at Intex. Besides, it’s a little loud.”

“So, you want to stab him?” Sawscale offered their knife.

“That’s a little cold, isn’t it?”

“You want to kill this guy or not?!”

I threw my hands up, “Ugh, You have a pistol I can borrow?”

Sawscale handed me what was probably the most beautiful pistol I’d ever seen. The handle had a mother of pearl inlay and the metal was engraved with oleanders and belladonnas.

“Forty-five,” they explained, “he won’t be getting up from that.”

I sighed. My hands were shaking.

Sawscale sat down, “You can do this, hoss. Show us who the real Agent Diamondback is.”

 

* * *

 

It was twenty past eleven when Hightower showed up. He must have been in Innisfree when Sawscale called.

He wasn't alone. Rooke was with him.

Hightower looked up and me and froze, the understanding blanched his face. He immediately pulled Rooke behind him, muttering something to her. She nodded.

"Conway, is this a trap?" She asked. She folded her arms, though she looked stunned. This was going to be messy.

"I didn't know you were going to be here." I said weakly. Hightower had gotten her to help find me. They were natural enemies, yet he reached out to her. For my sake.

“Why did you bring her here?”

“He didn’t bring me, I brought him.” Rooke glared.

Sawscale laughed behind me, "Well, it’s Hightower we’re after, but since you’re here, let's see what Coachwhip has to say about this." They pulled out their mobile and started typing. I wanted to punch them. I wanted for this to not be happening.

Hightower's face hardened, "So, you tossed your hat in with the white worm? What does that make you now?"

He had his hand under his coat.

"They say it makes me Agent Diamondback." I really didn't think I could do this.

Hightower sneered, " _I'm_ Agent Diamondback. You're more like...Agent Ball Python. Or Rat Snake."

I should’ve been grateful he was unintentionally making this easier. I was getting sick of his jokes and pointed Sawscale's pistol at him. He frowned.

"You don't want to do this." He shook his head.

"I really think I do. You've been nothing but trouble since we met."

Pain crossed his face for the briefest second, then it was hard again, "I meant: join them."

"They don't seem so bad except when dealing with you."

"And you don't think you can kill me on your own?"

I was getting angrier, "The enemy of my enemy, Hightower or whoever the fuck you are."

"Coachwhip is CEO of Intex. If you kill me, there's nothing stopping Sawscale from killing Rooke. She has nothing to do with this."

Dammit. Hightower had a hostage.

I lowered the pistol.

"Oh, this is bullshit." Sawscale growled and pushed me out of the way, drawing their knife, "Just remember you have be the one to finish him off, rookie...."

Hightower turned on his heel and grabbed Rooke in a hug. She wrapped her legs around his waist, keeping as much of herself inside his dropcoat as she could. Hightower jumped with her, catching on the wall of the next building over with his foot, then bounced against the adjacent wall of this building and was on the roof of the building across the walkway.

I realized that Hightower likely couldn't fight and protect Rooke at the same time.

Sawscale was on his tail and I was following Sawscale. They were faster than Hightower in a dead sprint and gaining. I wasn't sure what I was going to do. Stop Sawscale? Shoot Hightower?

Hightower tried to lose them by jumping across the street using lampposts. Sawscale slowed, apparently unable to land on such small targets. I knew that I couldn't. They landed on a car and leaped off. I just barely avoided getting hit by the car behind that car when I landed on the street.

Their footwork was impressive. Even carrying someone, Hightower moved gracefully in a zig-zag, occasionally even running up or down walls for short bursts. Sawscale matched him along walls and gained along straight paths, but couldn't keep up when it came to obstacles.

Rooke held onto Hightower's hat as he moved. Her other hand moved until his coat. It was impressive; any normal person would be screaming bloody murder.

The first shot pinged against the roof I was running on.

"Shit!" I moved out of the way, trying to get directly behind Sawscale. Better them than me.

Rooke had her arms around Hightower's neck, aiming his mauser over his shoulder with one hand and holding his hat with the other.

Sawscale stumbled as they barely dodged a bullet.

They brandished their knife and threw it, overshooting. Hightower stopped short, sliding. Rooke grabbed it as they slid past, then kicked off the ground, helping Hightower to his feet. As they leaped toward the ground, she threw it back. The knife stuck in Sawscale's foot, causing them to tumble off the roof and to the ground. I landed beside Sawscale, keeping my eye on Hightower. They weren’t moving.

As they fell, Hightower grabbed Rooke's hips and pushed away, then grasped her waist and her back, swinging her to the side. She hugged his neck as they landed in a perfect dip. He set her down and picked up Sawscale's knife. He appeared to consider finishing them off then and there, but looked at Rooke and reconsidered.

"I think I'll call you 'Agent Mongoose' while on mission." He said, looking at the knife.

"Why is that?" She asked.

"Because you just had that snake for breakfast. A woman after my own heart."

"I built my career off of weapons, Agent."

"You know," He kicked at Sawscale's prone foot, "this is why I went with Klipspringers. You always land with your feet under you. Jackalopes are speedy, but they don't offer much protection if you fall badly."

Sawscale was motionless on the ground. Usually, the dropshot and trousers should have protected them in the event of a bad fall, but there wasn't much to protect you if you landed on your head.

I pointed the pistol at Hightower and cocked the weapon.

Hightower was on me in a flash of red. He pushed me into the wall and held my wrists above my head. I dropped the pistol. He drove the blade through my cufflinks and into the wall. The wall was made of stucco; his strength was freakish.

Then his hands were around my neck, squeezing. His voice was in my ear, "There is a knife in my heart...you're twisting it."

I struggled, but he removed a hand to roll his knuckles against the arrow wound in my chest. I couldn't scream, his hand was so tight around my neck.

He was still breathing in my ear as he strangled me.

The only thing I could do was try to conserve as much air as possible. I was praying that Sawscale had only been stunned. Not because I particularly cared for them, but because I knew that if they didn't get up within the next minute, I'd be buried right next to them.

Assuming Hightower would even bother to bury us.

Rooke jerked Hightower by his collar. He let go, rubbing his hands, looking somewhat embarrassed. She pushed the mauser against his chest. Since they were opposite-handed, the hand off was easy as he holstered the weapon.

I gasped, sinking to the ground, still held up by Sawscale's knife.

"We were worried about you, Conway." Rooke said, "Setting a trap was pretty low, but...I'm glad to see you're okay."

Hightower's lip twitched. He reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my cigarettes and lighter, then lit up.

“I quit and I quit and I quit. But, without fail, some asshole does something stupid and I’m back on the coffin nails.” He picked up the pistol, examining it, "Forty-five? Isn't this a little heavy? It'd be loud. It's a showy weapon, not very professional."

"Not like a broomhandle, right?" I choked.

Hightower tossed it, grinning that poisonous little smile that showed his teeth. There was an eerie light in his eyes.

Rooke turned to him, "And what did I say? Violence to a minimum!"

She pointed to the knife through my shirt.

Hightower pointed to the same knife with the cigarette, offended, "It's not through his wrists, is it?!"

"You throttled him."

He looked away from the both of us, "I know I'm not a good person, Rooke, but I'm _trying_ , okay?"

She sighed, "We're going to have to work on this."

He smiled grimly, then removed his hat. He reached over and took mine, looking it over. Then he put his trilby on my head and my fedora on his.

"Hey!" I couldn't help it. The trilby was far inferior to the fedora. Damn, the wider brim shaded his eyes and managed to make him look even more intimidating.

She patted his back as they walked away.

"That's my hat!"

"Mine now, brother!"

As he walked, he stopped in front of Sawscale, who was starting to stir. He stooped over them and whispered something in their ear. Lifting up their Stetson, he patted them gently on the head, then replaced the hat.

"He was really going to fucking kill me..." I realized slowly. It's funny how you could grasp something logically and yet completely misunderstand the reality.

Sawscale sat up, rubbing their shoulder, "He ain't going to kill you. Least not anytime soon."

"Did you just se-?!""-Rookie! If you ain't praying, you fucking should be. Because he's got other plans.”


	14. Hit the Mattress

Sawscale and I were standing in Coachwhip’s office. Sawscale looked terrified, holding their hat to their chest. I didn’t know the procedure, so I did likewise with Hightower’s hat.

“Your first mistake was not considering Melanie Rooke to be just as dangerous, if not more so, than Agent Hightower.”

Coachwhip was facing the window that looked out over East Pointe, the windows were already fixed.

“Your next mistake was not attacking him then and there. There were two agents against one. That shouldn’t have happened.”

“Understood, ma’am.”

“What should we have done about Rooke?” I asked.

She turned to me, “Agent Sawscale was going to take care of that.”

That would have made two betrayals.

She continued, “I realize I haven’t exactly been fair to you, Diamondback, taking on your predecessor as your initiation is quite the difficulty curve. However, we are an elite agency and the mission remains.” She sat at her desk.

“I understand, ma’am.” I was having a hard time facing her.

“After all, you have Agent Sawscale to help you, though you must make the killing blow. I realize that you are probably not trained enough to handle an elite agent like Hightower, he was one of our own, so I want you to stay close to Sawscale until you can. Sawscale, make sure he’s trained up.”

“I will, ma’am.” They said.

“Killing Agent Hightower isn’t going to be easy.” I said.

“Of course not,” Coachwhip replied, “And since you’re not officially in ISHTAR, I will forgive this slipup.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“This mission was a failure, though an educational one. We now know Rooke and Hightower to be working together. It was just announced that Hightower is now working as her head of security under the assumed name ‘Whittaker Ames’.”

Hightower could come up with really cool names.

Sawscale tilted their head, “Does he know that’s actually two last names?”

“This may be of benefit.” Coachwhip pointed, “As much as those two deserve each other, Rooke is known for her strict pacifism policy regarding missions. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has applied this policy to Agent Hightower.”

“He’s committed to whomever he works with.” Sawscale said, “If Rooke says he can’t kill nobody, he won’t.”

“Lucky me.” I said.

“Shit, if anybody’s going to get creative with that order, it’s Hightower. He’ll probably just drive you to kill yourself.”

Coachwhip nodded, “Agreed. Now, Dr. Rooke has agreed to meet me to discuss business. You two wait in the lobby.”

Coachwhip pulled my resolver out of her desk and handed it to me. It was fully loaded.

 

* * *

 

 

Coachwhip had placed white chairs in the lobby to keep the giant globe statue company. I couldn’t help but notice how well she matched the décor. Something was bothering Sawscale, but they didn’t say what.

Sawscale and I stared at the stairs quietly until Hightower and Rooke showed up.

He was wearing my hat.

He sneered and tipped it as he walked in. I became very aware of the bruises on my neck. He was wearing a collared shirt to match my hat and a red tie to match the hypertrousers, likely under Rooke’s orders. He kept his coat closed, buttoned up, with the self-belt tied around his waist; it made him look very severe, almost military.

When they weren’t in use, his trousers sort of blended in. He almost looked like a legitimate security expert.

“I like the hat.” I said.

He ignored me.

“I liked it when I bought it.”

He ignored me.

Sawscale stood up, grinning. They walked in front of him, staring him down.

His face went blank, and they stood toe-to-toe, close enough to kiss. Both had their hands on their respective weapons. The hat brims touched.

“I smell sugar and flour.” They said.

“I smell cigarettes and bacon.” He replied.

Sawscale looked Hightower over, “You look nice. You should wear a tie more often.”

“Thanks; I’ll wear it to your funeral.”

“Is it true what they say? Does Rooke got you muzzled now?”

“You’re going to be wishing she had me authorized to kill.” His lip twitched; he almost smiled.

Sawscale shook their head, “We really are two of a kind.”

Rooke, who seemed to be enjoying the play-by-play so far, stepped in. She pushed them apart with the backs of her hands. She was dressed far more informally than Hightower, likely to show how little she regarded Coachwhip, just dark jeans and a button-down shirt.

“Mr. Ames, I’ve got business to take care of and your concerns can wait.”

Hightower backed off, “I can wait here, ma’am.”

Rooke looked at Sawscale and me, “No, I don’t think we’re ready for that, yet.”

She patted his shoulder and the two of them entered Coachwhip’s office. Sawscale and I shared each end of my listening device.

Sawscale frowned, their hand was still on their pistol, “Be ready, rookie. This might get messy.”

I stood by the door, waiting, listening through the door.

“I know you stole my prototypes.” Rooke started.

“I can neither confirm nor deny any such thing happened.”

“I can.” Hightower said.

“And how would you do such a thing without implicating yourself?” Coachwhip asked.

I heard Hightower’s heels on the floor, like he sat up.

“You know what?” Rooke said, “It doesn’t matter. It’s just business as usual in East Point.”

“Very true. Intex had to create an entire branch dedicated to security, as I’ve heard Rooke Firearms as well.”

“You’re looking at him.” Rooke replied.

“I came here to ask if you would be interested in joining my coalition to have the weapon’s ban overturned.”

“I don’t need to,” Rooke replied, “We’ve already left the lethal weapon’s market.”

“Oh? I got wind of a product of yours that is very lethal.”

“Any products of mine that may or may not be used lethally are only prototypes.”

“Air guns are also not regulated federally or by most state or local governments.”

“But other components are.”

Like arrows or drugs.

Coachwhip continued, “You can see how we can be best served by working together.”

“Nothing Intex does comes without a cost. I think I can handle this on my own.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

“Do you have other, less flashy prototypes that don’t come with the same legal issues?”

“I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

“I think we should bury the hatchet and work together. I know this isn’t easy; you coming in here, hat in hand. It’s not the kind of woman you are. I understand that.”

Rooke spoke, “I was told you were invited me here to apologize.”

“Apologize for what?”

“For breaking into TX Fabrications and stealing two of my prototypes.”

“I’m supposed to apologize for something I never did?”

“Oh, bullshit!” Hightower finally said, “You had two agents steal those prototypes.”

“You have no proof.”

Hightower snarled, “You know I know, you fucking cockroach, I got the video to prove it.”

Actually, he didn’t. I did.

“I’m not even going to dignify that a response.”

“Yeah, I know you won’t. I got one of your agents killed when he tried to finish me with the prototype you stole. I know your SOPs inside and out.”

“Are you sure you should be working with Mr. Ames?” Coachwhip asked, “Sounds to me like you should be reviewing the loyalty of someone who’s worked on both of our sides, before.”

“Well, I’d like to review all the ways you’re a total bitch.”

“Get out of my office.” Coachwhip ordered.

“Yes, ma’am!”

The door opened and Hightower walked out, wild-eyed.

He wasn’t done, “Well, as someone who’s already killed twenty of your agents, that’s almost half, I think Dr. Rooke would be _very well_ served employing me.”

Hightower walked through the lobby and picked up a chair, then walked back into the office.

“Excuse me.” He said as he passed us.

Swinging back, he tossed the chair over Coachwhip’s head, taking her hat off, and through the window. It shattered completely. The chair sailed into the parking lot and hit a car, causing the alarm to go off.

We all jumped.

He turned to Coachwhip and slammed his hands on the desk.

“My loyalty?!” He screamed, “For the last few years, _Burnham_ , someone’s been killing off your agents. Someone that _knows how_. Now, is that because I am the,” He slammed his hand on the desk on each word of the last sentence for emphasis, “only! Agent! In this! Building! With! Character?!” -Inhale- “Or is it because you murdered Hightower and left me to bleed to death in Agua Dulce?!”

I’d never seen him lose his temper like this.

Coachwhip looked at him like he was a toddler throwing a tantrum, “You’re paying for that window. And the chair. And my hat.”

“No, I’m not.” He said as he jumped out the window.

Sawscale folded their arms, “Christ, I have _never_ seen him do anything like that.”

Rooke pointed at the window, “I’m not going to say I was expecting _that,_ but what good did you think was going to come from mocking him?”

I spoke up, “I thought he gave you the slip in Allegheny.”

Everyone looked at me.

Sawscale sighed, “He did.”

Coachwhip held out her hands, “He’s been after us so long, I’ve began to forget all the times he’s managed to beat us and when we’ve managed to beat him. I think his numbers are off. I doubt he’s killed twenty of us.”

Rooke stood up, “I’ll show myself out. I need a word with him.”

“Nonsense. Agent Diamondback, please escort Dr. Rooke outside. I need to speak to Agent Sawscale.”

Sawscale blanched.

“You want to take the elevator or the window?” I gestured.

“Elevator.”

With my heart racing, I followed her out of the office.

Standing next to her, she kept her arms folded and her eyes on the door. She looked like she wanted to say something, but nothing was forthcoming. What did we have to say to each other, anyway?

We didn’t speak the entire time.

From the lobby, I saw Rooke catch up to Hightower, who was smoking in the parking lot. They started fighting, with Rooke making wild gestures and Hightower holding his arms in close. Slowly, they started to reverse, with Hightower doing the gesturing and Rooke closing off. Finally, she grabbed the belt of his coat and pulled him into a hug. He jerked and tried to push her away, but Rooke held on. Finally, he hugged her back for what seemed like a long time and they left.

It bothered me.

Sawscale entered the lobby.

“New mission, rookie.” I noticed they had a slight limp, and smelled of cigarettes, “It’s open season.”

“What?”

“You’re going to break into one of the Rooke offices and TX Fabrications delete the schematics for the prototypes we stole. We already got working prototypes.”

My mobile buzzed.

> Coachwhip: Schematics
> 
> I need you to break into the TX Fabrications office on Novichok and Holiday. You will be deleting all references to the XRCEP-14/15.
> 
>  Pay: $1000

 

> Coachwhip: Schematics
> 
>  I need you to break into the Rooke office for the same reasons listed above.
> 
>  Pay: $1000

 

“I thought I wasn’t a member until Hightower was dead.”

“You’re not, but we’re making an exception. Message to Garcia time.” They tapped the brim of Hightower’s hat.

“I’ve been there before, it should be easy.”

“Good, we could use something easy for a change.”

“What did Coachwhip have to say?”

“Don’t worry about me, rookie. Keep your eyes on the target.” They pointed to my mobile.

“I’ll do it tonight.”

We walked toward Sawscale’s motorcycle.

“What happened in Agua Dulce? Why didn’t you just shoot him?” Not that I knew where Agua Dulce was.

Sawscale scowled, their eye far away, “He escaped from us in Alleghany” I didn’t know where that was, either- “and I chased him across the desert and three states to Agua Dulce. We’d end up somewhere and try to get the jump on the other one for months.”

They waved their hand, “It was the first time he tried to kill us. I left him drowning in a pool of his own blood about half of a mile out of Mexico. It must have been July or August, so he was as good as dead out there, no need to waste a bullet. Just goes to show you can never tell with people. Big mistake.”

A pause, and Sawscale looked at the ground, “….Should’ve made sure.”

Saving a bullet wasn’t the only reason. I could actually see Hightower lying in the boiling heat, dying of shock and blood loss. He played dead until Sawscale left, then walked through the desert until he was picked up by somebody.

 _Diamondbacks are native to that area._ I thought.

“Has he really killed twenty of you guys?”

“I’m not sure. He laid low for a long time after that and some of the agents that got killed on other missions; that might’ve been him, but who can say? He might be counting agents that were killed because of him, like Boomslang.”

 

* * *

 

 

I was terrified to go home, worried a trap might be set for me. There wasn’t.

Sawscale looked around.

“He ain’t been here recently.”

“How can you tell?”

“Everyone’s got tells, hoss. Unless he’s got a copy of your keys, he’d have to break in. The lock looks fine.” They tested it, “Besides, if he felt like breaking in, he’d make his presence well-known.”

They stopped me, suddenly afraid, “He…doesn’t have a copy of your keys, does he?”

“No?”

I checked the windows. Nothing.

“Coachwhip made me get a hotel nearby, so you can always call me.” They tried to be reassuring, but it wasn’t working. They left.

Losing his head like that was frightening; he was violent when he _wasn’t_ upset. I remembered his threat.

He couldn’t kill me, Rooke wouldn’t have it, but he could certainly make me wish I was dead.

Walking around, I noticed a card in the trashcan. It was bloody. I took it out. It was a blood test card. The top half was mine; it looked like someone had just smeared it across something. Rooke had written my blood type. The bottom half was Hightower’s. It was considerably neater. It seemed to say something about us.

I threw it back in the trash and laid on my chair, wondering if his blood had worked its way out of my system, yet.

I looked out the window and nearly had a heart attack.

Hightower was in Delgado’s office, sitting at the desk, working at a computer. His coat was hanging up. Almost everything about the office was the same; he was sitting in her chair. They hadn’t cleaned out her office yet, I suppose Rooke had been too sentimental to give it to someone else until now.

I didn’t like it when my work came to my apartment and I definitely didn’t like this. I shifted uncomfortably, my skin clammy. The idea of it was making me sick. He had a perfect view of my apartment.

I called Sawscale: “Hightower is in the office across from my apartment.”

Selena Delgado barely knew me in life and I missed her terribly. It actually made me angrier at Hightower.

“What’s he doing? Is he being aggressive?”

“No. He’s working at the computer.”

“You’re going to have to think very carefully about how you do your missions. Need me to come over?”

“I’m not sure that’s safe.”

“Okay, this is a psychological attack. He’s trying to get into our heads.”

“It’s working.”

“Close your blinds. Breathe.”

I walked over and closed the blinds. I could have sworn I saw him look at me from his office in silent acknowledgement. It made my heart freeze.

“Okay.” I said.

“He can’t be there all night, can he?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“No, you right. This is going to make deleting that data hard.”

“No shit.” I wasn’t feeling very witty.

“We might have to co-op this. Let me call Coachwhip, see what she wants to do.”

“She wants me to kill Hightower.”

“Rookie. Get it out of your head that he’s just going to beat you up. In his mind, you’re one of us. Tainted. He will deal with you like you one of us.”

“He’s not allowed to kill.”

“He doesn’t have to. Besides, pacifist orders never stopped anybody from being able to defend themselves. It just means he can’t seek you out to kill you. He’ll need a reason, but it wouldn’t take much. Trust me, you’ll lose. I’m calling Coachwhip.”

They disconnected.

I made coffee, it shook in my hands. I’d beaten him before, stopped him a few times, but it seemed like an eternity ago. He also hadn’t taken me seriously before.

I rubbed the scar on my chest.

I wondered if he was taking me seriously now.


	15. Loaded Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Contains drug use. Don't drink and drive.
> 
> Note: Charlie Mike is a U.S. military term, CM in the NATO alphabet. It means ‘continue mission’.

I was on my sixth cup of coffee, no vodka this time, though I desperately wanted it. I kept peeking through the blinds to see Hightower still in Delgado’s office. I didn’t want to think of it as his.

The sun had already set when Sawscale called me back, “I got a plan.”

“What?”

“I’m coming over. Sit tight.”

They disconnected.

I didn’t see Sawscale enter the building from either of my windows, but they knocked on my door. They handed me a headset similar to what the professionals used.

“I’m going to keep over watch from here; you go to TX Fabrications. When you done, if he’s still there and looks like he’s fixing to move, I’m going to distract him long enough for you to delete the records. Once you’re done, let me know so I can peel off. If he starts making moves, I’ll tail him.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“That’s what we do, hoss.”

“What if he’s not distracted?”

“You saw him today; he can’t resist picking a fight so far as us agents are concerned. At any rate, I’ll be right here.”

I must have given them a look because they smiled, “I’ll be fine; just worry about that data. Here.”

They took their hat off and removed the clean sneak.

“This’ll help when you hit Rooke’s. You need it more than I do.”

I remembered where my clean sneak was. On Hightower’s desk. Inside my hat.

Sawscale put the headpiece in their ear. They moved a chair to sit by the window, then called me.

“Sawscale to Rookie, radio check, over.”

“Diamondback to Sawscale, read you loud and clear, over.” I felt strange calling myself that. It was like wearing someone else’s clothes; it didn’t seem to fit. I ran my finger across the brim of Hightower’s trilby.

“Sawscale out.” They put their hat on their knee and leaned their head against the wall, looking between the blinds and the window.

I left.

* * *

 

The TX Fabrications lab on Novichok was probably even tougher than last time, but after everything I’d been through, it felt easy. Sawscale was quiet for the most part; sometimes they’d whistle. They were quite good at it.

“Objective one accomplished.” I said as I sat down in the subway car.

“Good work, hoss. Hightower’s still in his office. Need a distraction?”

“The servers are in the basement; I can enter through the other side and get to the basement without him seeing me.”

“You’re the hacker; you’d know better than me.”

“ _Do_ you have a specialty?” I wondered why I never thought to ask.

“I _was_ half of a hunter-killer team, but for the most part, I’m intel. You need someone to find somebody or figure who did what or how it’s put together, I got you.”

Sawscale was an actual intelligence professional. There weren’t many non-government agencies that trained people for that. It made me wonder what kind of lives these agents lived before giving that identity up, ostensibly forever.

“Half of a hunter-killer team?” I didn’t know what that was.

“The hunter half.”

“Who was the killer?”

“Usually Boomslang. Before that, well….”

“Oh.” My heart sank.

“Yeah.” They sounded wistful.

We were quiet the rest of the ride. I wondered if Sawscale was my partner, and what it meant if they were.

I approached the same Rooke office I’d seen every day. I could see my apartment. The blinds were closed and I could see the blue flicker of the TV, but I couldn’t hear it through the phone. Sawscale was trying to make it look like I was home. This should’ve been easy, even with Hightower, but I felt a strong foreboding in my chest.

I walked around the camera and disabled it.

“I think he noticed you. Did you disable a camera?” I wondered where Sawscale kept their crosslink coil.

“Yes?”

“He’s probably looking at the feed. Hide. He’s moving.” I heard them get up. I checked the crosslink, Hightower was Delgado’s office. Then he put my hat on, vanishing.

I ran behind a dumpster, terrified that Hightower was going to check his crosslink. I patted his hat and remembered he wouldn’t see me if he did.

Hightower walked out of the office, coat open, hand on his weapon. He took a quick pull from his flask and pocketed it. Looking around, he removed his tie. A clip-on. He put it in his pocket with the flask. He took one more look around and then walked toward my apartment.

“Sawscale?!” The panic rose in my voice.

“Charlie Mike, rookie! I can handle this.” They cocked their pistol. I didn’t know who Charlie Mike was, but I understood the intent.

Hightower had left the door open. I ran inside. The first thing I noticed was the door facing my apartment was on a new grid, one that wasn’t connected to anything in the building, and reinforced to prevent gatecrashers from doing anything. To leave, I’d have to either go back the way I came or go through the roof, where Hightower could see me. I took the elevator to the basement and got to work. There was a mass email open on whoever ran the server’s laptop.

> From: Whittaker Ames
> 
> To: Rooke Firearms (all)
> 
> Subject: Security, Circuitry, and You
> 
> I hate to be the new guy that comes in and busts up everything you’re doing. But I am absolutely going to be the new guy that comes in and busts up everything you’re doing because nothing you’ve done security-wise has been satisfactory. Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen, there is a war going on. As you’ve all heard, our working prototypes and schematics have been stolen, likely by Intex.
> 
> If they get those prototypes copyrighted and to market before we do, we’re finished.
> 
> I am well aware of the leak in the company. Do not attempt to handle this yourselves; I was hired on for a reason. Just email me your anonymous tips and let a professional handle it.
> 
> One more thing: I understand the tighter security measures might be considered restrictive by some, but it beats getting your face punched in by an Intex spy.
> 
> Very Respectfully,
> 
> Mr. Sunshine.

I think he was talking about me.

From my mobile, I heard someone kicked down my door with a loud bang. I had a good idea who.

I could hear Sawscale’s sharp gasp through the phone, “Mission first, rookie. I’ll hold him off.”

“Believe it or not, I came here to see _you_.” I could hear Hightower through the phone; I had to work quickly, “ _Por qué haces estás?_ ”

 _“No estoy es mío.”_ Sawscale paused. The accent was the same whether they were speaking English or Spanish, “Tu _hiciste esto._ Tu _abusaste su confianza de él._ _Hablas español porque no entiende ni una palabra.”_

They laughed humorlessly, _“Por fin, tienes miedo.”_

“ _No tengo miedo; vamos a hablar en confianza.”_

I didn’t understand what they were saying anyway, so I just kept working and listened to their tones. I was okay with them just posturing to one another, but I didn’t want things to get violent. This was taking too long.

I heard Sawscale take a step back, the blinds rustled.

 _“No tengo nada que decir,”_ Sawscale growled.

“ _Pero, tengo mucho que decir,”_ Hightower stepped closer.

 _“_ Then say it in a language everyone here understands, _cabrón_ _.”_

A pause, _“_ I was hoping for a private conversation _.”_

“About what?” Sawscale was furious, “How about we talk about you betraying _my_ trust over a bitch like-!”

I heard a fist on a face and Sawscale’s head knock against my window. They gasped.

I found the data.

“That. Is supposed. To be. Between. _Us_.” Hightower said, pointedly, “Our friend here doesn’t need to hear this.”

The other end of the call went dead.

I deleted the information from the servers and ran. I figured I could get onto the roof of the Rooke building to get a clear shot and finish Hightower off. I ran back out the way I came and scrambled across the wall.

As soon as I was on the roof, I tried to run, but ended up sliding. Someone had dumped floor wax all over the roof to keep anybody with hypertrousers from getting a grip. I slipped right off the roof.

Something stung my leg like a bee and I lost all concept of direction. A blur engulfed my vision and my entire world rocked as I was pinned to the wall.

“That is some damned good aim.” I said. Hightower smiled wide.

I was folded between his left arm and his right leg with my head on his shoulder. The pain of the needle in my leg was intense. I tried reaching for it.

“Leave it.” He ordered, “You _cannot_ afford to keep bungling these meetings.”

“What did you do with Sawscale?” With effort, I grabbed my pistol and pointed it at his face. For the life of me, I couldn’t get my hands to make the pistol work. I couldn’t move my hand around the grip to pull the trigger. He grabbed my pistol, keeping his thumb between the weapon and the hammer, and threw it.

His voice was in my ear, “Coachwhip’s mercy will _not_ outlive me.”

“What did you do to Sawscale?” My mouth was getting dry. The world was spinning and I couldn’t coordinate my limbs.

Hightower ignored me, instead unbuttoning my coat and opening it.

“Say, what if I pulled your coat off and dropped you? You think you’d land on your feet or fall to your death?”

I looked down into the skylight. It seemed miles away.

“Please don’t drop me….”

“Since you asked so nicely; I won’t.” His smile was vicious.

“What did you do to Sawscale?” It was becoming very uncomfortable to talk, my mouth was so dry.

“I wanted to have a little chat, but you were being difficult. They’re alive, at any rate.” He was starting to leave light trails and shadows as he moved.

“Did you sting them, too?”

“You’re probably pretty high right now. Feeling a little sensitive to light? Vision getting blurry? Light headed?”

I nodded. My forehead was on his neck. I could feel his stubble.

“Good. You should start to see some pretty interesting stuff for the next few hours. Don’t worry, I’ll be right here with you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It’s called being a decent, non-psychopathic human being, Rick; you should try it sometime.”

He slid off the wall and onto the skylight. As we descended, I held tightly to him, making him chuckle. He patted my face. I was unable to get my feet under me and I stumbled, clinging to Hightower’s collar. Hightower grabbed the lapels of my coat to let me down gently and removed the dart from my leg.

Sawscale was behind him, holding their pistol. They looked afraid.

“Shoot him!” I ordered. Hightower looked behind him, then back at me. He raised an eyebrow.

“I can’t, rookie! You have to.” They walked around Hightower and put the pistol in my hand. This time, I cocked it and put it to Hightower’s forehead. I pulled the trigger and nothing happened.

“Oh, wow.” Hightower chuckled and took my hand in both of his, phasing through the pistol. He put my hand on my chest.

I looked at Sawscale.

“Wrap this up;” They drew a circle with a finger, “Coachwhip has another mission for us.”

“Three in a night?” I asked.

Hightower ignored me, instead, he turned my hypertrousers off. The mechanics around my leg relaxed. He folded me up and carried me over his shoulder, “Don’t need you hyperjumping when you’re hallucinating.”

Sawscale was following us.

He jumped off the roof and carried me to his car.

“Aren’t you going to stop him?” I asked.

Sawscale shrugged, “He can’t kill us.”

“Mr. Conway, there’s nobody there.”

Sawscale vanished.

Hightower stuffed me into the passenger seat, then buckled me in.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“I need you out of the way for a few hours. Got some Rooke stuff to do.” He started the car.

“Are you going to leave me somewhere?”

“Is that a request?”

“No?”

I was worried about Sawscale.

Hightower took off at breakneck speed. I screamed. He started to laugh. It was hollow and cruel. He swerved around cars, cutting people off with inches to spare. He started to drink from his flask again.

“Am I high or are you drinking and driving!?”

“Yes on both accounts, Mr. Conway.”

“Slow down!” I screamed. If he got pulled over, we were both fucked.

“Slow down?” He looked at me like I was out of my mind, “I think I’ll speed up.”

“You’re a fucking maniac!” I screamed. Why were there so many cars this late at night? Every time he hit one, he’d phase through them. I still flinched every time.

He floored it. The car roared. I tried opening the door, but it was locked.

Boomslang was in the back seat. He leaned forward to look at me, the arrow was still stuck in his neck, “I wouldn’t jump out here, lad.”

“You shut up, Boomslang,” I said, staring at the arrow in his neck, “You’re dead.”

Boomslang nodded like I said something he’d never considered.

“Ha!” Hightower grinned, “What’s Boomslang have to say?”

“He said I shouldn’t jump out of the car.”

He nodded, “Surprisingly sound advice coming from him.”

“I always have sound advice.” Boomslang sounded offended. He shrugged, “Well, me being dead and all just goes to show what kind of mind you’re in. You’re riding in a car with your target, who is a psychopath unusually obsessed with you, you’re talking to dead people…. I’d say you probably should’ve taken my advice earlier about not getting involved.”

“Thanks, Boomslang. That’s a lot of help right now.” I said.

The blood dribbled down his neck as he spoke, “Well, if I’m just a figment of your imagination, then I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know.”

“True.”

“So, believe me when I tell you, because it’s really _you_ telling you, that it would be a smashing idea to grab that steering wheel and drive into oncoming traffic. We’re certainly going fast enough.”

“Pretty sure that would kill us both.”

“What the fuck is Boomslang telling you?!” Hightower sounded frightened. His eyes darted from the road to me and back.

Boomslang clapped his hands once, “It’d probably be for the best. You finish him off and there won’t be any more murders.”

“Rick, I suggest you do _not_ take that fucking ghost’s advice.”

“You didn’t last time and look where you are now.” Boomslang shrugged, grinning. Blood was pouring out between his teeth, “It’d be right noble if you did. Hell, you’d be a hero.”

“I’m not a hero.”

“You’re not a hitman, either.” Boomslang tapped the business end of the arrow in his neck.

“So, I shouldn’t kill him.”

“Well, from an outsider’s perspective, you’d look like a hitman. But you’d know the truth.” Boomslang patted my shoulder, “And if you survive the crash, you’d get your hat back.”

“I do want my hat back.”

Hightower tapped the brim of my hat that he was wearing, “Bad guys don’t get good guy hats.”

“I’m not a bad guy.”

“You’re trying to take my job by killing me. If that doesn’t make you the bad guy, I don’t know what does.”

“I don’t want your job.”

“Then don’t do it.”

“Sawscale said I’d just be doing what I usually do, just with them. Murder is just a one-time thing.”

“First, never believe anybody who says anything’s going to be a one-time thing. Second, Sawscale wouldn’t give you mission objectives; Coachwhip would. And if Coachwhip wants you to kill someone, you’d better do it.”

He paused, tilting his head, “Sawscale found that out the hard way.”

Boomslang spoke up, “So, here you are mate, stuck between a life not worth living and a fucking lunatic who won’t even tell you his real name.”

If Boomslang mentioned that, and Boomslang was a figment of my imagination, it meant I felt it was worth bringing up, “Why am I so bothered by that?”

Boomslang gave me a look, “Same reason Hightower saw fit to arrange my murder.”

I looked at Hightower, “You were in love with Hightower.”

Hightower swerved off to the side of the road and pulled the emergency brake to stop. He must have braced himself on the floor with the hypertrousers because he didn’t move while I jerked forward. The wheels screamed and smoked as my head hit the dashboard, making my entire world flip. The car fishtailed until we were perpendicular to the road. The bumper hit the guard rail and we stopped.

Boomslang was gone. I looked over, my head still on the dashboard. I wondered why the airbags hadn’t deployed.

Hightower was staring at me. His face was blank but his eyes were blazing like roadflares. He wasn’t breathing.

_Pandora’s box, Richard. You just ripped it in half._

Hightower got out of the car, walked across the front, and opened the passenger door.

I don’t remember what happened after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translator Notes:
> 
> “Believe it or not, I came here to see you.” I could hear Hightower through the phone; I had to work quickly, “Why are you doing this?”
> 
> “This isn't my doing.” Sawscale paused. The accent was the same whether they were speaking English or Spanish, “You're doing this. You betrayed his trust. You speak Spanish because he doesn't understand a word.”
> 
> They laughed humorlessly, “Finally, you're afraid.”
> 
> “I'm not afraid; we're going to speak in confidence.”
> 
> [...]
> 
> “I have nothing to say to you,” Sawscale growled.
> 
> “But, I have so much to say,” Hightower stepped closer.
> 
> “Then say it in a language everyone here understands, asshole.”


	16. Breathe

I yanked the emergency brake, bracing myself against the floor. I wasn’t thinking clearly, but her name fell on me like a curse and I just reacted. I couldn’t breathe. The car fishtailed into the guard rail and stopped.

I stared at Conway, his head on the dashboard. That must have hurt. It took him a second to realize what he’d just done.

Then he was terrified.

I reacted automatically, as I often did whenever _her_ business came up, getting out of the vehicle and walking to the passenger side, opening the door. I had already shut down emotionally, like I always did. _She_ taught me that to get me willing to kill because I wasn’t a psychopath like the other agents. It felt like I was watching a copy of myself from afar.

I considered some of the agents I killed my friends, once, before they showed themselves for what they really were. Even so, I was going to feel it when Sawscale died.

Coachwhip, too, but for a different reason.

I grabbed Conway’s neck, leaning in with all my weight to crush his windpipe. I was going to feel this one, too. Rooke was going to be furious with me.

In one fluid motion, he swept my arms away and we connected at the chest. I brought my hands up to protect myself and shove away, but he grabbed my neck, yanking me close.

I brought my hand up to shove into his nose to get him to let go, but he pushed against the floor, throwing himself at me. I spun away last second, but his hands were still around my neck and we both tumbled over the guard rail, rolling into a ditch.

He landed on top of me, squeezing my neck along the sides, cutting circulation off at the jugular, the carotid, and closing my windpipe. Losing air is bad, but I can hold my breath for a while. Blood chokes cut off circulation to the brain. I had thirty seconds or less before I lost consciousness. Darkness was already starting to creep in.

“I love you.” He told me as he strangled me. That _had_ to be the drugs, so I ignored it.

His lack of balance made him automatically sprawl out on top of me, so I couldn’t roll him. Almost all of his weight was on my shoulders. I couldn’t reach him from the way he was pinning my arms. I tucked my legs up to jump but the awkward weight distribution caused me to flip ourselves over my head. I landed on my knees; the pain radiated through my legs and stunned me long enough for Conway to roll us again. My head was getting fuzzy and I was starting to lose feeling throughout my body.

His pupils were so dilated they appeared to turn his irises black. He looked over my face curiously. His thumb gently rubbed my adam’s apple.

“Well?” I choked bitterly. Getting killed by a drugged greenhorn was not how I was expecting to go; new hitmen always made a mess of it. I was hoping for some _dignity._

He leaned in slowly, letting up pressure to restore circulation, but keeping his hands on in case he needed it. The sudden rush of blood and air to the head made me dizzy and left me defenseless and gasping when he planted his lips on mine gently.

He pulled away, paused, and then kissed me hard. I was lost in it, confirming the fears I had when I saved Conway from my own stupidity rather than take care of Boomslang.

He grabbed the back of my head causing his hat fell off my head into the dirt. His hand reached under my coat and squeezed the small of my back toward him.

"Fuck...," I gasped against his lips, completely shocked. He kissed me again. I almost shoved him off, but instead I held him there by the collar of his coat. He gently squeezed my hands, working his thumbs between my palms and fingers to get me to let go and I did. He shrugged his coat off, then slipped mine off my shoulders. In the heat of the moment, I slid out of it.

All of the anger and betrayal seemed to have come to a head, then came full circle and I felt a different kind of energy and an intense fear in my chest. I clung to the fabric of his shirt, hands on his shoulders.

His lips were soft and sticky and his stubble scratched at my face. My perception of him as partner and enemy kept shuffling between one another and confusing me, leaving me unsure as to who I was with and even who _I_ was. My heart raced and kept screaming _Danger, Danger Danger_ but I pulled him closer to me.

It had been years since I even thought about something like this, so cut me some slack.

He was started giggling like a fucking idiot while he caught my bottom lip and lapped at it, sucking and biting. I imagined he was just as excited and terrified as I was, kissing me to expel all the violent energy and somehow get us back to good. He pulled away slightly for a beat to exhale, then his tongue was in my mouth, sliding past mine. I felt mine lick the roof of his mouth and I felt his face with my hand, unable to feel anything through the gloves. I tossed them impatiently and got back to feeling his hair and the back of his neck.

I started to wonder if this was a trick to get my guard down, but then his hand was under my shirt and his hips were moving against mine and I didn't particularly care. He could've shot me or stabbed me to death or whatever the fuck he wanted at that point and I'd have still been trying to keep this...thing going.

His free hand slipped under my beltline and between my legs. His hand sent a wake-up shock through my spine and I grabbed his wrist roughly. He froze, staring at me. I held his wrist tight, not letting him advance, but not letting him retreat either. We were so close to one another I had to tilt my head to keep our noses from touching.

"The fuck are we doing?" I demanded of the both of us. Our breath came in short little gasps and all I could hear was the loud pounding of my heart. I pushed him away, grabbing his hat and putting it on. He fell into the dirt, not moving. I started to sit up.

“You’re just a little fucked up from the drugs and-“”No!” He interrupted, grabbing my collar. His pupils were fully blown. I wondered what he was seeing.  He pushed me back down by my collar and held me there.

“Did she love you back?”

I bristled, “None of your _fucking-_ “”Is that a ‘no’?”

My hand automatically cocked back into a fist. He yanked me in close again, making my blood pressure spike, kissing me again. I gripped the small of his back and held him while he wrapped his arms around my neck. He unbuttoned his shirt and got started on mine, ripping a few buttons.

The thought occurred to me that he wasn’t going to remember any of this by morning. It helped me get a grip.

I pulled away with a sigh, looking away toward the street, “What are you seeing right now?”

“A dark shadow around you. Shaped like a woman.”

If he had accurately described her, I’d have had more reason to take him seriously; shadow people were a common theme when hallucinating. I tried to smile, “So, you’re one of those. Those kinds of people that see spiritual, religious shit when you trip. I’m not one of them.”

I was trying to trivialize this, distract him. Conway was out of his mind and if I didn’t want to hate myself forever I’d have to get away from him, drop him off someplace safe, and put him to bed.

Sawscale once remarked that love was cleaning up other people’s shit.

His eyes were wide with honesty, “I think I’m in love with you.”

I sighed, “That’s the drugs.”

“No, it’s not,” he grabbed my head, trying to kiss me again. I pushed his face away, “She was well prepared.”

I tried to wrestle him off, but he kept me pinned. He said, “You’re like some sort of kill switch to destroy the agency in the event of her death.”

“I can see it that way.” I said. He should’ve been _easier_ to wrestle when he had no balance, not harder. But he was still sticking to me like a cross between a golden retriever and a barnacle with his legs spread for balance. His face went into my neck and I made a panicked sound and tensed. He slipped out of his shirt.

I got my legs under me, charging.

He bit my ear and breathed into it. I clung to him, whimpering and shivering. It was my weakness.

“I want you to fuck me raw….” He slurred into my ear.  I actually considered what would happen if I let him do what he wanted, since he wasn’t going to remember anyway, maybe get him to a hotel…Then I hated myself for having that thought.

I rolled my hips forward, arching my back so my feet were under me and jumped. We drifted apart and I grabbed Conway’s shoulders, bringing the two of us to the ground.

Conway hit the ground with a grunt, knocked unconscious.

I pulled myself to my feet, covered in dirt, panting. I picked up my gloves and trenchcoat.

Then I ran to the car. Sawscale could deal with this.

I heard a hammer cock behind me, but I didn’t stop.

“He’s in the ditch, he’s drugged, but fine!” I yelled as I started the car.

I heard Sawscale jump the rail and run to Conway, then I heard them scream at me, “I knew you was going to hell, but now I know they sending you _first class_! Motherfucker, you need _Jesus_!”

“I knocked him out to get him _off me!”_ Why was I trying to defend myself to Sawscale?

I took off toward East Point, trying to breathe.


	17. Truth

I wasn’t much of a hacker. I’m still not. So, Rooke really should have known better than to send me to delete Intex’s stolen prototype data. 

  
Well, I deleted it.

  
The fire did get a little out of control, but I found it made a fitting warning. The fire was also soothing, considering what had happened just about an hour ago.

 

Fucking Conway. I knew the drugs made you honest. I didn’t know they made you _that_ honest. I took a pull from my flask and resolved to take that hour to my grave. Nobody needed to know about it. Sawscale probably knew about it and that’s too many people.

  
I rubbed my neck, admiring my work when I heard the distinct sound of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. It stopped just behind me. I didn’t turn to face the rider. 

  
Sawscale whistled, “That’s a nice bonfire you got going!”

  
I leaned my head back, “Coachwhip’s plans do burn rather nicely, don’t they?”

  
They took off their helmet and put on the seat, “Speaking of fires…It seems her flame in your eyes done finally gone out.”

  
That was absolutely not true.

  
I half-turned slowly, my eyes going wide, “By now, you should know better than to mock me.”

  
“Who’s mocking? I was coming to congratulate you.”

  
“Why are you here?” I managed to leave out: “and not with Conway?”

  
“Well, you wanted to talk…. So, let’s talk.”

  
Sawscale was feeling particularly arrogant today.

  
“What did you do with Conway?”

  
“What do you care?”

  
They were right. I shouldn’t have cared, “Nevermind.”

  
They spat on the ground, “I put him up in a no-tell motel in North Point.”

  
“You left Conway, drugged out of his mind, in a cheap, out of town motel by himself?!”

  
“What’s it to you if I did?”

  
I stalked over them, raising my hands to fight, “You’d better stop fucking with me…!”

  
Sawscale raised their hands, turning their head, “Easy! Easy! He’s safe! Conway woke up long enough to tell me what happened. It ain’t true, is it?”

  
I turned from them. By not answering, I had answered.

  
Sawscale whistled. After a second, they said, “I won’t say anything if you won’t.”

“Good. That little bastard’s going to fail his mission again and again until Coachwhip gets sick of him and you’re going to off him, right? Standard procedure?”

  
“Standard procedure.”

  
“Then I have nothing to worry about.”

  
Sawscale snorted, “Like hell you don’t. I’m fixing to kill your bae.”

  
“The fuck are you talking about? He came onto me.”

  
“Like I said, Hightower, her flame in your eyes done gone out. And little Rickie is in some very serious trouble.”

  
I knew that. I shouldn’t have cared. I did. But, Sawscale was the enemy, not someone to collaborate with. 

  
I had to turn this around, “Speaking of Conway, I’ll go ahead and ask you what I was going to ask you before. You know Conway’s not actually in, right? He doesn’t rate a codename. So, I’m still Diamondback. You can still call me that. In fact, policy states that only death relieves you of the name.” 

  
I started to smile as theirs started to fall.

  
With all of Sawscale’s bravado, it was easy to forget just how tiny they actually were. I, heh, towered over them, “So tell me, Agent Sawscale, why do you call me by the name of the woman you hated so much? Let me guess, you can’t kill Diamondback, but you can kill Hightower, right?”

  
Their sneer didn’t meet their eyes, “Just being courteous, is all. I’ll call you whatever you like.”

  
I grabbed the calavera around their neck. They pulled back slightly, loosening it into a necklace. Had I been anybody else, I’d have gotten stabbed. But, we were both protected from one another, so long as we weren’t showing hostile intent.

  
A hell of a long way from our partnership. 

  
“I remember this mission. I don’t see why you keep this, considering who gave it to you.”

  
“A warning. For me and everyone that sees me.”

  
“It was right before you turned on me, if I remember correctly.”

  
All I saw was them inhale sharply and my face stung with a hard slap. I definitely deserved that. I looked at them in shock to see Sawscale breathing hard and misty-eyed.

  
“I did that f-! I should cut your fucking eyes out for that!” They turned and practically ran to their bike.

  
The Harley roared to life and Sawscale tore their hat off to put their helmet on, “You ain’t using them anyway!”

  
They rode north. I rubbed my face, confused as hell, and thought about the two of us. 

  
A hell of a long way from our partnership. 

  
I thought about how much lying someone could do before they couldn’t tell the truth.

 


	18. Baddest of the Bad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Death

I woke up to the worst hangover of my life and a sermon on TV. My head was splitting and I was thirstier than I’d ever been.

"You up, rookie?" I was staring at Sawscale's arm on a table. They were sitting down, eating biscuits and gravy. There was a glass of water on the table. Without asking, I took it. Sawscale pouted a bit, then got another glass and aspirin for me. They turned the TV off. The sunlight was intense.

"My fucking head....where are we?" The water was the most delicious thing I’d ever had in my life. I wasn’t even thinking about drinking after someone. The only thing I was wearing was my hypertrousers. Sawscale was holding the rest in their lap. My pupils must have still been dilated because I had a narrow window for vision. Anything within about a foot of my face was blurry, as was anything ten feet or further. Everything looked like a movie from the seventies.

"A no-tell motel in North Point; I found you on the side of the mountain in just your pants. I had to find all your shit. Breakfast?”

“Sure.” I ate quietly while Sawscale looked away, troubled. There was a bruise blooming on their face. In a sick way, it complimented their hair and calavera.

“I must have looked like a maniac.” I finally said. “Yeah, told the cops you were my roommate and a schizophrenic so you wouldn’t go to jail. Hightower must’ve dumped you off by the side of the road. He probably scattered your shit to be an asshole.”

“How’d you find me?”

“It’s what I do. I know Hightower’s patterns well enough to figure out where he’s going to go.”

“I really ticked him off…Was he really in love with the original Hightower?”

Sawscale put their face in their hand, dropping the fork, _“Jesus wept…,”_ they sighed, “If it’s all the same to you, I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it.”

My head was still throbbing. I stared them down, “It’s not.”

Sawscale groaned and kept their hand on their forehead, staring at the table, “Yeah, he was. Hightower found him on a mission. Apparently, he was a piano player that ran up a gambling debt with some gang. They came to collect and he ended up burning the bar down while they were trapped inside. I think Hightower pushed him to do it.”

They shrugged and shook their head, “Got to give a man credit for style. So Hightower took him in and had him trained as a hitman. I didn’t think too much of him at the time, he was a rookie. But I’ll be damned if she didn’t make sure he got the nastiest of jobs.”

I was having a hard time imagining Hightower as an inexperienced rookie. “Did she feel the same way?”

“Don’t reckon so, hoss. They had relations, sure, but she had relations with everybody. Which is cool and all, hell I knock boots with the best of them, but…I wouldn’t say she loved him.”

“I don’t know this woman, so….”

“We’d be off on a mission, he’d lose his shit because she’d be off with someone else. Boomslang and I tried to tell him that she wasn’t that serious about him and he’d try to bust our heads. Old Hightower did pay him special attention, but if she really cared, she’d have at least tried to work something out if only to keep him happy. That’s what healthy couples do.”

“I guess.”

“Anyway, you never could tell with her. She was as likely to kneecap you as fuck you or give you a bonus for a job you did. He was sick with love and she was nuttier than squirrel shit. They went together like firecrackers and gasoline. Of course, Boomslang would call Hightower on his shit every chance he got, so they _never_ got along.”

Sawscale laughed humorlessly, “Naturally, Hightower made sure we’d all partner up as much as possible so she could watch the fur fly, and just leave me to keep those two in line. She liked to watch people fall apart.”

“Jesus.”

“You said it.” I said, “Is he really going to kill every single one of you over this?”

“Nah, just the ones that sided with Coachwhip. He left the ones that stayed neutral alone.” I wondered about the other agents.

“All this over _one_ person.”

Sawscale smiled sadly, “Speaking of Hightower losing his shit over one person, he burnt down one of Intex's offices in retaliation for deleting all the data from Rooke regarding the weapons last night. No fatalities, but now we don’t have the prototype data, either."

Hightower had a long leash, but Rooke was holding very tightly to the other end.

“Coachwhip isn’t going to be happy.”

“Nah, she’s all right with us. Our mission was a success, aside from that lunatic witness. She’s none too pleasant to be around, though.”

“Thank God.”

I wondered if Sawscale was taking the heat for failures, since I wasn’t in yet. I looked at their wrist to see no new burns, “What did he do to you? Last night. I was worried.”

“He was going to talk until he figured out where you were. So then he just choked me out.”

“Why didn’t he kill you? Rooke?”

Sawscale shook their head, “If you got enough history with someone, you don’t finish them off quick.”

“There’s a _lot_ going on between you two.”

“You ain’t lying.” Sawscale and threw my clothes at my face, “Let me take you home. You could use some more sleep.”

“Hightower works across the street from me; I will not be getting any sleep.”

“I’m always nearby, hoss. He won’t hurt you unless you start it. He’s working for Rooke now, remember? Rooke probably confiscated all his weapons as a safety precaution.”

“Why would she do that?”

“To remove temptation. He ain’t any less deadly without a pistol. I think she’s trying to fix him or something. Her funeral. If the demons rattling around in his head could be reasoned with, he’d still be Diamondback.”

“He couldn’t be crazy enough to try to attack me, could he?”

“Not unless you try breaking into Rooke’s offices.”

“Fair enough.” As I dressed, I noticed a few new bruises and cuts. Likely where I had been dumped.

I felt like I had forgotten something.

Something important.

* * *

 

Sawscale dropped me off at my apartment. I almost asked them inside just in case, but I didn’t. Their story had put a new, disturbing light on the entire situation. At least Sawscale seemed normal enough, but I thought about cigarette burns and betrayal as a coping mechanism.

My apartment was more or less the way I left it. Leave it to Hightower to throttle somebody, then leave no trace. The only damage was to the lock on the door. At least he didn’t kick the door off, like I would have. The blinds were open and I had a good look at Delgado’s office. He wasn’t there.

I wondered where he was in the same way one might a missing tiger; a tiger with the heart of a lovesick puppy and the mind of a serial killer. After everything he’d been through, there was no wonder how he became so proficient at psychological warfare. And here I was, unable to get him out of my head.

I took his hat off and put it on my coat rack. I looked at my other hat, a normal fedora. I considered for a moment putting that hat on from then out, but then I figured it would be way more hardboiled to return the trilby when I finally got the better of Hightower and my fedora back.

Sometimes, setting up crowning moments of awesome took work and sacrifice.

With that thought in mind, I actually got some sleep.

I awoke to someone pinning me down with one hand.

My eyes popped open to see a dark shape wearing a fedora.

My fedora.

“Jesus Christ!” I screamed, scrambling away. The lights came on.

“Relax, it’s me!” They said.

Sawscale was standing over my bed, wearing my spare fedora.

“Fucking…Sawscale…what the fuck?! I live one building over to a maniac in a long coat and a stolen fedora, so you break into my apartment wearing a long coat and a stolen fedora?!”I thought I was having a heart attack. My vision had gone back to normal and my headache was gone.

“I’m sorry, hoss, I was just funning.” They had left their hat on my bed.

“That’s not funny!”

They were still laughing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, listen: we got work to do. Coachwhip wants us to see one of our Rooke insiders. Get him to talk about how Hightower knew about the prototypes to begin with."

“Why don’t you just go do it?” “Because if I left you alone and some maniac in a long coat and a stolen fedora shows up, Coachwhip would have my ass. You getting paid for this mission anyway.”

“Ugh, fine.” I took my fedora off their head and put it back on the hat rack.

 

* * *

 

We walked up to the TX fabrications lab. The same one where I had been shot. The window had been fixed. I looked in. The hole where an errant arrow had stuck into the wall was still there, plastered up and painted over, but still noticeable if you knew where to look.

Sawscale knocked on the door. The guard opened it, looking confused.

“I’m Agent Sawscale and this is Agent Diamondback. You know why we’re here.” Sawscale said.

The guard scratched his head, “If you’re Agent Diamondback, then who the fuck was that guy that was just here?”

They turned on a light switch and convulsed suddenly, dropping to the floor. I looked at the wall. Prankspasm.

Sawscale pointed out the obvious, “We got company.”

They stuck to the walls of the room, facing out. I just stayed away from the walls entirely, drawing my pistol.

“I’m guessing that insider really was a double agent.” I said.

“If he’s here, it’s your mission. What do you want to do?”

“Check on that source.” Sawscale and I took the elevator. I checked the crosslink. He hadn’t tampered with anything except the lightswitch as far as I could tell, and the source was sitting in his office with his head on the desk.

“He doesn’t seem to be here.”

“He’s got your clean sneak, remember?”

“Yes.” I bristled.

As we stepped out, we checked both directions of the hallway, looking everywhere. The door to the source’s office was open, light out. Sawscale was on my back, pistol drawn, side-stepping so they could see to the side and behind them. The illusion that he had fallen asleep at his desk didn’t fool me. Carefully, Sawscale and I stepped through the threshold and into the room. There was something on the man’s hands.

Scratch that, there was something _through_ his hands. A red butterfly knife that matched the blood staining his cuffs.

“Hey!” I whispered to him. He looked up at me with tears in his eyes, "Behind you."

I heard something roll into the office. I remembered seeing it in Hightower’s apartment.

Sawscale screamed,"Gerna-!" The loudest bang I'd ever heard left my ears ringing and the flash of light blinded me. I was completely certain I was dead when the grenade went off. I stumbled around, realizing I was still alive. Forgive me for not knowing a flashbang from a normal grenade. I heard Sawscale speak, but I couldn't make out what they said. I felt footsteps and someone hit the ground. I was taking exactly zero chances and fired blindly in a panic. My vision started to clear just as I ran out of bullets. I wasn’t looking forward to asking Coachwhip for more.

Sawscale was on the floor, staring at me, covering their ears, “What the fuck, hoss?!” They pulled a dart out of their arm.

“What the fuck indeed!” Hightower popped into the doorway, holding the offending XRECP-14, “Rooke should not have given this to me. It is _way_ too much fun.”

He motioned to the desk, “Conway, you’re supposed to ask them questions _before_ you shoot them. What a mess.”

The doctor's head had been obliterated. There was blood and brain everywhere.

"Rooke was actually going to give me a pass for shooting this one.” He waved around a stack of cash, “But since you did it, you can keep the money. Along with the body."

He breezed past me, smacking me with it and stuffing it into my pockets.

"Does Rooke know how creatively you interpret orders?" I asked.

"Yes." he said as he removed the knife and pushed the doctor out of the chair. He sat down in his place, putting his feet up. He played with the XRECP-14 in his hands, “She took all my lethal weapons. She even searched my car and hotel room.”

I stared at him, his face wasn't that blank killer look he often wore, but it wasn’t as animated as it had been when we were more or less on better terms. I noticed he was avoiding eye contact.

"Now, that delirious hick on the floor is probably going to tell you to find a pig farm as soon as they're back from their trip to what looks like Hell. And I used to do that, too. After all, pigs will eat anything." He was wearing a thick gray turtleneck that completely obscured his neck.

I saw Sawscale on the ground, pupils as wide as saucers. They were staring at something far away; something terrifying. I kneeled beside them, cradling their head. They were mumbling incoherently, shivering with sweat.

"But, there are a few things wrong with that, see, you have to shave off all body hair," He was counting the reasons off on his knuckles with the knife, "remove all the teeth and implants, grind the body into small enough pieces for the piggies to eat, remove all personal effects (such as clothes and jewelry), and we all know where the pigs eventually end up."

He det the weapons down and spread his hands, "Now, call me picky, but I don't want last month's hit becoming tonight's dinner. It's enough to make you kosher for a while."

I couldn't believe he was talking about this with me of all people.

"Now, I used this method plenty of times in the past until I spoke with my drug dealer, a vet tech, and he pointed something out to me that was much more efficient and certainly what I would want for myself."

He pointed at me, "Tell me, Mr. Conway, where does all medical waste, dead animals, and animal parts not intended for consumption end up?"

"I don't fucking know, the dump?"

"Wrong!" He pointed for emphasis, his face bright, "That's a biohazard; they're put in meat freezers and eventually cremated. During cremation, the bodies are placed inside a furnace where they are subjected to anywhere between 1,400 and 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit. At that temperature, a human being will be reduced to ash and bone fragments in about one and a half to three hours. Afterward, you take a magnet and pass it over the corporeal remains to remove any metal." He pantomimed this, "Also be sure to remove any nonmagnetic items that didn't burn up in the cremation process. The ashes left over from a communal animal cremation are then ground up and disposed of, either by selling the ashes to fertilizer companies or simply dispersed."

He made an 'O' with his hand for emphasis, "You must, however make sure to remove any batteries present in or around the corpse prior to cremation for the sake of the crematorium, as any battery will explode under the heat, damaging the furnace." He smiled wickedly, "And you don't want to have to explain why a sick farm pig had a pacemaker, now do you?"

I was amazed, "No, I guess I do not. Thank you, Hightower that was...illuminating. Now, if you could only just tell me _who the fuck you are_ -" "-You’re the spy, figure it out yourself!” He snapped, getting his feet off the table, suddenly angry. He had been destabilizing gradually and considerably since I tossed my hat in with Coachwhip.

He growled, looking away, “You’ve corrupted me enough as is.”

Then he smiled, shrugging, “Now, be mindful of anybody working in a funeral home, a veterinary office, or in sanitation. Trust me on this, when you’re a hit man, you actually spend most of your time _hiding_ bodies rather than _making_ the bodies. Here, I'll give you this." He pulled a business card out of his wallet, stood up, and placed it in my -his- hatband, "You certainly need it more than I do. Good luck."

He was walking away.

"Fucker...," Sawscale spat.

I was suddenly very calm. I stood up, "You know, I’m starting to have a hard time figuring out which Hightower I’m talking to, since there really appears to be two of you.”

Hightower tilted his head, confused. “So, who are you, today?” I picked up Sawscale’s hunting knife, letting the righteous anger overtake me, I felt its weight in my hand, tested its sharpness against my fingers, “Hightower the pianist-turned-professional-hitman or the Hightower that’s possessed by a _clearly_ insane dead bitch?!”

Time slowed down. He turned on his heel, bringing it out. I saw the red creep up his leg and I jumped at him, catching him by surprise. He may have felt a strange kinship with me, but I couldn't stand his condescension any more. I threw every ounce of anger I possessed at him.

I had enough.

Through accident and intention, he'd messed me up. For the first time, I was a match for him; he dipped and rolled out of the way of the knife, but I put nicks in his coat. He had his blank killer face until I punched the dull handle into his jaw. It just egged him on, his mouth twisted into an inhuman grin stained red with blood from busting his lip. His eyes burned like flares. I felt like he was marking me out from everyone else in the world. He unfolded butterfly knife, still stained with blood.

We started circling, watching each other for the next move. I was suddenly aware of how small the room was. I broke the standoff with a series of quick strikes he’d parry or dodge. Then he’d come in with a move of his own I’d barely dodge. He switched between hands and grips as naturally as breathing while I had to think about it, costing me precious nanoseconds. Sawscale was watching us from a behind the desk, flinching from blows they weren’t receiving.

“What happened last night after you stopped the car?”

“Just know that _I_ didn’t do anything to _you_.”

Wait. Lunge. Swipe. Retreat. Wait.

I watched his chest, the curve of his spine telling me where he was going to be next. Then there was a black blur and an agonizing pain searing across my bicep. It wasn’t much of a cut, I found out later, but it threw me off. I couldn’t afford it if Sawscale and I wanted to leave this room alive.

I thought I was going to die with a curse as my last word, so I grabbed his collar and threw him into a wall, then tossed him to the floor, pinning him. His arms were under my knees.

He started to laugh louder than I'd ever heard; he was practically convulsing on the floor. It was maniacal.

"Well?!" He demanded. I raised the knife over my head. Any good agent would do it. And it's not like I'd never killed anybody before. He was my assigned target, and he’d messed up my partner pretty badly. He stared me down, waiting.

"Think I won't keep coming after you? That there isn't a war going on?" He was trying to goad me.

“What the fuck happened after you stopped the car last night?”

Hightower’s eyes went wide, “I dumped you off by the side of the road and threw your phone.”

“You’re lying.” I growled. I gripped the knife so hard it shook.

He laughed, “If I’m a liar, why ask me anything at all?! Finish your mission; I want you to. You can be Diamondback; I’m sick of this.”

He was telling the truth.

"You’ve really lost your fucking mind.” I finally said, “I'm not rewarding you for being a freak, Hightower."

I tossed the knife into the floor beside his ear and punched him in the face. Then I threw him over my shoulder and tossed him outside.

Sawscale was in a fetal position when I returned, terrified by demons only they could see.

I always thought I was ready to kill him when his face was dark and cold or, more recently, vicious and sadistic, but then I’d catch a glimpse of something that stopped me. He just seemed so…broken. There was a sickness seething through him, corrupting his intentions and poisoning his words until all he could do was break people the same way Hightower had broken him.

The original leader of ISHTAR was still alive and well. A good agent would have punched his face until it was one with the floor. Sawscale was going to keep paying for my mistakes until I was a good agent.

There were no more excuses.

I forgot to get my hat back. Fuck.


	19. Momento Mori

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Drug and alcohol use

 

I called the number Hightower left me, it was for a business called ‘Pinkman’s Cleaners’.

“Where are you?” A lady said on the other line. I looked at the card in my hand.

I told her.

“Any special requests?”

“Um…it’s a mess.”

“That won’t be a problem, sir.” She hung up.

The cleaners showed up in a white van roughly an hour later, no questions asked, nothing even said. There were four of them, all dressed in black coveralls with white bandanas around their faces. As soon as they were at the threshold, they put black rain slickers on and pulled the hoods up.

One of them gently picked Sawscale up, hushing them silently, and carried them outside the room. I sat with Sawscale, watching.

Their absolute silence and effectiveness called to mind robots; it was like watching a play. They wrapped the body up in a black bag labeled “CORONER” and placed as much of the remains in with it.

I noticed they had a separate bag for the nonhuman waste. They never reached over the body.

The place was absolutely immaculate when they were finished. I wasn't sure how they were communicating, if they were communicating at all; maybe they'd done this so often they didn't need to. They slapped a bandage over my knife wound and helped me carry Sawscale outside. Then they loaded the body into the van via stretcher.

I looked at Sawscale’s motorcycle. I couldn’t drive a car, let alone that. And forget riding a motorcycle with Sawscale being as messed up as they were. One of the cleaners seemed to understand, she took Sawscale’s keys out of their pocket and pointed to the van.

The driver he tapped his foot on the ground to get my attention and nodded, looking at the ground.

“Oh, you’re going to fo-!“She pointed to my mouth and shook her head, then put that finger to her own mouth, nodding.

They made us get in the back with the body. I propped Sawscale up on my arm, trying to get them to stop shivering. I rubbed their back, “Nothing you’re seeing is real, Sawscale. It’ll all be over in a few hours.”

“Sh…,” Sawscale reminded me.

The cleaners gave me a disapproving look.

I thought about Gessler and wondered about what he said about leaving. I wasn’t so sure about wanting to join them anymore. I wondered if Hightower would take me back, but the thought of doing that stuck in my mind somewhere between shooting myself in the head and burning my apartment down. I considered leaving town, but then I figured that either Hightower or the other agents would just follow me.

I was in miles too deep.

They took a long, convoluted route back to my apartment and dropped us off, taking all the money Hightower left for me.

It felt like he was playing a sick joke on me. I wasn’t laughing.

“Were those not the eeriest janitors you’ve ever seen?”

“I know I’m high, but I think they was spirits carrying the dead to the afterlife.”

“Yeah, I think so, too.”

Sawscale was light and easy to carry back. They were silent, lost in their thoughts, though they’d occasionally be startled by something and hide their face in my neck. I sat them down on my couch and I sat beside them, helping them out of their gear and setting it on the table. I pulled off the calavera, looking at it, rolling it between my fingers. It appeared to be made of onyx.

“Hightower got me that when we was down in Mexico. It’s too damned badass to throw away.”

“It really is.”

I took my coat and Hightower’s hat off and set them with Sawscale’s things. Their pistolbelt was ornately carved to match their pistol.

Southerners really cared about their weapons.

“I don’t wonder why I joined, but sometimes I wonder what I stay on for.” Sawscale muttered softly. They took off their eyepatch to reveal a perfectly healed eye underneath, “Besides fear, of course.”

I was silent.

“I just hope if I ever find the strength to walk out, he’d find it in his twisted heart to forgive me.” They looked at their eyepatch thoughtfully, “Fat chance of that happening.”

“Are you losing faith?” I asked.

Sawscale looked up at me, like I’d heard something I shouldn’t have. Seeing them with two eyes was rather bizarre.

“No! I was just thinking to myself.” They looked like they were pleading.

“I wasn’t going to tell Coachwhip.”

They relaxed.

“What happened?”

“Pardon?”

“The betrayal. Hightower. Both of them. How’d everything go so badly? I want the entire story. I _need_ the entire story.”

Sawscale stretched out, sighing. Their legs were behind me, “I wouldn’t say it went _badly._ Not for us, anyway. We were all afraid of Hightower _and_ each other at the same time. We’d do a lot of nasty shit to get out of what Hightower had in store if we screwed up, so none of us really trusted each other.”

Sawscale looked at me, “Not to say we didn’t _like_ each other, but we played ‘under-the-bus’ with each other so much we’d be champions if it were in the Olympics. Not like we knew each other’s names or where we were from, anyway. Ain’t proud of it, but that’s what happened.”

“You can’t run teams like that.”

“ _Au contraire._ Never seen anything like it. We was effective as hell considering the punishment for failure; you just had to watch out if things went bad. We’d just as soon leave your ass and mourn you later.”

I wondered who Copperhead was and what happened. There were so many stories in those names. Did they all end badly?

They looked at my face and quickly covered. They extended their hand as it to erase my thoughts, “It ain’t like that no more, hoss, promise. It was Coachwhip who started trying to get us to look out for one another instead of the politicking and backstabbing. One day, she just decided Hightower was just too damned crazy. So, she started finding people sympathetic to bumping her off. She was one of the founding members so she had clout.”

“Our Hightower didn’t like that idea.”

“No, he did _not_. He found out about it and acted like it was a good idea, got our plans, and then went and warned her. I should’ve known better. He was always such a hot head as far as she was concerned. Ain’t no flag bigger or redder than him being happy to bump her off. Nobody had her hooks in deeper than him.”

Sawscale shook their head, “Don’t know why they thought they could hide from _me_ of all people. Boomslang and I brought the two of them back to a little podunk town down in California. Allegheny. Coachwhip was waiting for us there.”

Sawscale’s face darkened, “That was a long two weeks for those two.”

I found that to be absolutely chilling.

“She told Diamondback he'd get one last chance if finished Hightower off personally; he told her to shove it up her ass. He was right about us…he really was the only one of us with principle.”

Sawscale looked me dead in the eyes, “So, _she_ shot Hightower.” They held up their fingers, “She shot Hightower _seven times_.”

“Why seven?”

Sawscale laughed nervously, “Because Hightower kept _getting back up._ Then she tried to shoot Diamondback, but she was out of bullets. So she got me to try and finish him. He got away from me and you already heard how that went. Lucky bastard.”

“She must have been setting this up for years….” I muttered, “Hey, if I’m supposed to kill my predecessor, why can’t I just be Boomslang? You were there to witness it.”

"There’s more to it than that.” They said forcefully.

I had forgotten those two used to be partners.

“Sorry, that was insensitive. What else is there?”

“You’ll understand soon enough; I don’t want to ruin it by telling you. Besides, Coachwhip said you got to kill Hightower, so that’s how it’s got to be.”

“Oh.”

“You should’ve finished him tonight. Don’t tease him anymore, hoss. Just get in, get out. Think of it as mercy killing. He’s going to keep hurting people if you don’t. Because I honestly think he _can’t stop._ ”

I didn’t think he could stop, either, “I know that.”

“You can’t reason with him; you can’t save him. We’ve all tried.” They folded their arms and stared at the ceiling, “Now, he’s fucking with us.”

“Not this time.” I shook my head, “He was _helping_ me. Look how easily we took care of that body. I just wish I knew what his angle was.”

“Nobody knows, hoss. I don’t think _Hightower_ knows what Hightower’s angle is anymore. “

I got a call and got up to check it. It was Rooke. I answered, expecting to deny a murder, maybe pin it on Hightower.

It was his fault, anyway.

A slurred, gravelly voice spoke, “You asked what happened yesterday?”

Nevermind, it was Hightower. He sounded awful, like he’d been drinking boiling whiskey or screaming. Maybe both.

I was about to ask how drunk he was, “Hi-“”- _You told me you fucking loved me you bastard!”_ he screamed.

My legs gave out from under me. I was about to be sick.

Boomslang’s awful ghost whispered in my ear, _“Same reason Hightower saw fit to arrange my murder.”_

“Rookie, who the fuck is that?!” Sawscale was sitting up when they shouldn’t have had balance at all. Adrenaline could sober people up.

“ _The fuck I-“_ “-And then you throttled me! “

His voice became a soft whisper, “If you don’t fucking kill me now…,” He was starting to yell, “drug-fuelled _makeouts_ with your target will be the _second_ worst thing to happen to you this week because _I can’t fucking live like this_!”

I told myself he was lying. I told myself he was probably drunk or on drugs and was fucking with me. There was no way he could be telling the truth, it was too awful to comprehend. I couldn’t find my feet that night. I was talking to figments of my imagination. I’d hit my head when he fishtailed the car. There was no way I could have throttled him, let alone….

_You could have if he let you._

I wanted to know what happened after that and I never wanted to know at the same time.

I heard a struggle and Hightower screaming incoherently. Bodies hit the floor. Someone picked the phone off the ground.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Conway!” Rooke sounded surprised, “Disregard everything Hightower just said. That’s the absinthe talking.”

I didn’t believe her. You had to think of a lie before you could tell it. And Hightower was too messed up to be thinking clearly.

Rooke sounded out of breath. She put me on speaker, likely because she needed all of her limbs free. Hightower was screaming insults at her in various languages.

I covered my mouth, feeling like I was going to vomit. I was shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone.

Sawscale snapped their fingers to get my attention, glaring at me. They mouthed, “Put it on fucking speaker!”

I did.

“ _You’re trying to gaslight me you fucking bastard!”_ Hightower screamed and struggled.

Rooke: “I swear to God, Hightower, I will fucking tranq you if you don’t calm down!”

“ _Get off of me!”_

More struggling. I felt like I was about to faint. I was worried about Rooke.

“Not until you calm down.”

“ _I’m fucking calm!”_

Sawscale snapped their fingers again and held out their hand, “ _Rick!_ Give me the goddamned phone!”

That had to be a slip.

I didn’t react fast enough for Sawscale’s satisfaction, so they threw themselves at me, grabbing the mobile. It clattered to the ground. Sawscale was lying across my lap with their head on the floor. They were staring intently at the mobile, “Dr. Rooke. Agent Sawscale. Listen to me: play some music. Preferably piano. The crazier the better.”

“Are you fucking serious?!”

“As serious as the medical emergency you fixing to have if you come at him with a needle.”

“How do you know this will work?” I started to hear soft piano music start up in the background.

“We were partners. That means I got him out of as much trouble as he inflicted on me.”

“What you two are doing to him is fucking horrible. This is a goddamned nightmare.”

I couldn’t agree more on both accounts.

“If you’re trying to gaslight him, it’s fucking working because I’m about to have him committed. I had to take his weapons. I’ll probably have to keep him off alcohol, too.”

I heard a sigh and Rooke spoke softly to Hightower. Hightower mumbled something and I heard Rooke get off of him. He must have picked up the phone.

“Saw,” Hightower said, he sounded calm again. Tired.

Sawscale spoke as gently as a lover, “Yes, Di?”

“Have you ever seen the operation of a machine so fucked up, made you so sick at heart, that you’d throw yourself into the gears just to get it to stop?”

Sawscale’s mouth jerked into a frown, they blinked. Then their face was calm, relaxed, but their voice was soft and shaky, _“Yes.”_

They disconnected.

We lied there in silence for a long time. Sawscale smoked an imaginary cigarette, staring out the window. I gave them a real cigarette.

“You done fucked him up _bad_.”

I lit up a cigarette myself, starting to believe in ghosts.


	20. Ashes to Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death, violence

 

That afternoon, we found ourselves in Coachwhip’s office. The window was fixed.

“Hats on the table, both of you.”

We placed them on her desk gently. I thought she was going to rip them apart.

At least it wasn’t my hat.

Coachwhip looked at them, arms folded.

“Rooke sent me an email.” She turned her monitor around to face us.

 

 

> From: Melanie Rooke
> 
> To: D’Arcy Burnham
> 
>  
> 
> Subject: Stop it!
> 
> I appreciate you sending agents to fix the leak I had at my company, I really do. But quit sending them to harass Mr. Ames. If you’re trying to discredit my company by making a fool of my employees I might rethink my policy toward nonviolence.
> 
> This is not a threat, this is a warning. Consider it your last.
> 
>  
> 
>  Rooke.
> 
>  

Coachwhip was deadly calm, “I doubt very seriously there is a word in the English language to describe how badly you two _fucked this up.”_

Sawscale and I swallowed.

“Agent Diamondback, your training is _over_. I am going to issue a challenge to Agent Hightower to meet us on the roof of this building to avoid collateral damage. “

She stared into my eyes, “I _do_ want this to end tonight. And I _do_ mean it. Take your hat and go.” She gestured to the hat and the door.

I picked it up and put it on. Sawscale reached for theirs, but Coachwhip put her hand on it. Steely gray eyes met terrified brown.

“I need to talk to Agent Sawscale in private.”

I ran out of the office and waited in the downstairs lobby.

The second I saw them, I immediately pulled them into a hug. They clung to me tightly.

“It’s all right, hoss. I’m a survivor.” They said gently.

“We should be running.”

Sawscale shook their head, “Ain’t nowhere to go no more. They’d just find us and make sure our funeral was closed-casket.”

I pulled away, holding their hands, “There was nothing we could have done to avoid this, huh?”

Sawscale smiled sadly, “There was a lot of shit _I_ could’ve done better. Ain’t no sense crying over it.”

They reached to their pistol belt and removed a magazine. They unloaded six bullets and handed them to me.

“For tonight. This is going to get ugly.”

“It’s already ugly. I don’t want to go home. Can I stay with you?”

“Sure. Where you want to go?”

“Anywhere. It might be our last day on Earth. I drove him way too crazy for him to care about what Rooke said.”

Sawscale patted me on the back.

 

* * *

 

 

We went to the racetrack and gambled. Sawscale explained the program to me so I could finally make intelligent bets. I hadn’t been making many of those, lately.

Neither one of us felt like drinking.

I was making a lot of money off the bets. It could have been napkins I was winning, because I found myself unable to care. Sawscale was winning big, too. I wondered who would get the money if they died tonight.

We drank virgin cocktails, watching the horses together.

“How are you drinking with dip in your mouth?”

“Practice. Iron guts.”

“What was Hightower’s codename?” I finally asked.

“The most fitting one out of all of us. Death Adder. It’s the only name we’ve ever retired.”

“What’s your real name?” I asked. It suddenly became important. I could be dying right next to this person.

Sawscale shook their head, “Agent Sawscale. I ain’t making that mistake again.”

“Can you at least tell me where you’re from?”

Sawscale looked at me, laughing, “Where the hell do you _think_ I’m from?”

“Sorry.” I said, “Dumb question. “

“I swear, whenever I come this far north and open my mouth, people want to shave thirty points off my IQ because of my accent.” They grinned, “That just makes them more surprised when I kill them.”

“I can’t get over you having two eyes.”

“Well, you got cigarettes, hoss.”

“I’ll pass.” I looked into my no-jito, “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“You already have. Want to ask another?”

“Why did you join?”

Sawscale looked at me, then back at the racetrack. They were quiet for a long time.

“Sorry I a-““-I was in a bad way back then. I was in law enforcement prior to this and pissed off a few Banditos, so I was in hiding. That’s where I met Hightower…Death Adder. She hid me in a barn all the way up in Ontario. Eight of them showed up to kill me. But then _she_ showed up and made them _fucking pay._ I owed her big for that so I ended up falling in line with her. Killing those banditos really messed me up.”

“Why?”

“She made me save one for last and torture him to death. I didn’t know I was good at it until she showed me. We didn’t have a TV and I guess she wanted something to watch.”

I nearly spat my drink up. I looked at Sawscale apologetically, _“Shit!_ Sorry. _”_

“You can laugh; I was telling a joke. Humor equals tragedy plus time, as they say.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re wrong.”

They paused, “I think about him now and again.”

“Is there any agent that doesn’t have a fucked-up backstory?”

“Yeah, some of the founders. Agent Cottonmouth comes to mind. Everybody else only got in because they messed their lives up. Death Adder had a type.”

“And if you weren't her type and she wanted you anyway, she made you her type.”

“You got it.”

A waiter brought us champagne we didn’t order, “From the house.”

He placed the drinks on the table, along with a piece of paper, delicately folded, and then walked away. We looked at it together, _“2330. Enjoy the rest of your day.”_

We downed the drinks and left.

Sawscale and I watched the sun set from the same bench where I saw Hightower after he’d broken his nose. I felt like I was getting my affairs in order. I saw all of our colors mixing in the sky until they faded into darkness. The stars hadn’t come out.

“Hey, Sawscale. I know you don’t want to tell me your real name, but…can you say mine?”

They sat up, “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m going to die tonight. Either literally or metaphorically. Just say my name before I never hear it again.”

“Richard Conway,” they leaned in to tell me a secret.

It was a nice name.

It suited them better than “Agent Sawscale”.

 

* * *

 

 

The two of us showed up to the roof early. Coachwhip soon followed with her cigarette holder, no cigarette. I realized how sharp her cigarette holder was. She walked to the edge of the building, looking up at the moon.

“The werewolves are out tonight.” She remarked, “The word ‘lunatic’ actually derives from the latin word for moon.”

She turned to me, “They must have noticed that people tend to get wilder during the full moon. Pretty interesting, right?”

Sawscale and I were quiet.

Coachwhip patted my shoulder, “Relax, will you? You’ve done similar work in the past.”

I had never done anything close to this. I couldn’t speak.

Hightower showed up late in full equipment and my hat, gently opening the door to the roof and closing it behind him. His meltdown must have been cathartic because he looked no more concerned for what was going on than the door itself. He didn’t even seem to notice Sawscale as he passed them.

He just looked tired.

She looked at me, “Diamondback, you know what to do.”

I drew my pistol, “I’m sorry.”

Hightower shook his head and brought his hands up, “No, I am. If anybody deserves to kill me, it’s you. I’m tired, I want to rest. So, I won’t stop you. Make it quick.”

“You’re just giving up?” This had to be a trap. He had to have a deathfluke or something. I noticed he was wearing the same plain gray shirt he had on when we first met, right here in this very building. The bruises on our necks matched almost perfectly.

“No. You can only kill me once; I’ve killed a lot of snakes over the years, more than I’ve avenged.” He sort of smiled, “So, I think I’ve won.”

I didn’t trust it; his hand was on his mauser. Coachwhip was right behind me, “Agent Sawscale.”

“Yes’m?”

“If Agent Diamondback doesn’t kill Agent Hightower, kill them both.”

Sawscale and I looked at each other, terrified.

Hightower nodded to me, “Oh, they’ll do it, too.”

Sawscale gripped their pistol in its holster, shaking and looking pained.

Hightower turned to Sawscale, “Just like old times, huh?”

Sawscale looked away, cursing under their breath.

Before I killed him, I had to know, “Who the fuck are you?!”

Hightower shrugged, “I don’t know.”

“His name is-“Coachwhip said a name. _His_ name. I felt my heart rip apart. Sawscale and I stared at her, surprised.

_He didn’t give you permission to-_

Hightower winced as she said it, squeezing the grip on the mauser.

“They say that everyone dies twice. The actual death, and the last time anybody ever says your name. So, may I call you-?“

I felt cheated.

“No.” His voice was hard. I felt reality crash down around me and my head was swimming, “You took away that name and gave me Agent Diamondback. You call me Agent Diamondback.”

“Hightower. She’s the one that took your name. And your identity. And your personality. In fact, I can’t tell you two apart anymore.” She decided, “So, I’ll call you Agent Hightower.”

“You can call me fucking Susan if you want. I don’t care.”

Coachwhip’s voice was hard. She lit up a cigarette, “Time’s up.”

She looked over the flames, “Sawscale.”

Before Sawscale’s pistol even left its holster, Hightower twisted behind him and grabbed Sawscale’s hunting knife from their belt and punched it into their chest.

Sawscale dropped, too injured to scream. As they fell, Hightower slashed them across the face. They clutched their injuries, blood pooling from under them.

I couldn’t help but think that Sawscale wasn’t going to shoot, but I had no way of knowing either way. His hand was off his pistol.

“Now, by my count, _hoss_ , that makes us even.” He switched grip on the hunting knife and raised it to throw into Sawscale’s back. I was about to shoot him if only to save Sawscale.

“On second thought…,” He smiled his little condescending smirk and lowered the weapon, “I should leave you these last few minutes to think. It’s only fair.”

His eyes met Coachwhip’s as he licked the blood off Sawscale’s knife.

“J-j-Jesus…wept….” Sawscale gasped. They still had one good lung. It took me a second to realize that Hightower had slashed out their right eye. It would take Sawscale an agonizing while to drown, _“Quiero disculparme por todo._ I didn’t care about either one; I just didn’t like what she was doing to you. I’d have done _anything_ to get it to stop.”

Hightower inhaled sharply.

They choked, _“Mereciste…algo…mejor.”_

Coachwhip raised an eyebrow, “This is illuminating.”

I wondered if she understood.

Hightower’s face went white as if he just had a horrible thought. He shakily dropped the knife, clearly understanding something I didn’t. He kneeled over Sawscale.

 _“S-Siento tanto….”_ He muttered, pushing his hands into Sawscale’s knife wound, “ _Por todo. Siento tanto.”_

Sawscale grabbed Hightower’s hands, smiling shakily.

I took a step toward them.

“Diamondback, stay where you are. Hightower is still armed.”

This was getting to be too fucked up to be real.

Hightower drew his mauser, leaning over Sawscale.

“I look forward to retrieving my weapon from your corpse, Agent Hightower.”

He pointed it at Coachwhip. She reacted faster than anything I’d ever seen, throwing her cigarette holder. It stuck _into_ his hand. He dropped the weapon with a curse. Coachwhip was right on top of him. She kicked the pistol away and picked up Sawscale’s knife with her foot in one motion and kicked it into her hand.

“Did you forget _who trained you?!”_ The smile never left her face. She slashed Hightower once across his arm and once again across the chest. With a stomp, she drove her cigarette holder _through_ his hand.

Hightower screamed as his blood pooled and mixed with Sawscale’s on the roof. They were nonlethal strikes, just enough to get the blood flowing. She threw the knife off the roof with a sigh. Hightower pulled the cigarette holder out of his hand, dropping it into the blood.

“I think I understand now, poor Sawscale. So unlucky. You found it within yourself to intervene for your partner, yet you’ve been hunting him down on my orders. Jealousy isn’t very becoming of you.” She lit up another cigarette and took a long drag.

Hightower hissed, grabbing Sawscale and pushing his back to the door.

Coachwhip turned to me, “Well, it looks like it _has_ to be you. Come on, Agent Diamondback. We haven’t got all night.”

I didn’t even see her move, but she was suddenly behind me. She wrapped her hand around the inside of my wrist, pressing into my back.

“A little hesitation is natural.” Her smoky breath was in my ear. I felt the glow of her cigarette on the back of my hand, “It’s just one more thing we’ll need to fix.”

I let out a sharp gasp. Stinging hot pain shot from the back of my hand, through my wrist, and all the way up my arm. I could smell burning skin mix with the tobacco smoke.

Hightower visibly flinched. He knew exactly what that felt like. Sawscale had apparently passed out.

“Before you go, I have to thank you for training your replacement so well. He’s come miles since we first met.”

Hightower held Sawscale close, trying to keep them from bleeding to death by sitting them up and pressing himself to their wound.

I could have sworn Sawscale was smiling.

“Come. We’ll do it together.” She wrapped her hand around mine and lifted my arm and held it, “It will be a _bonding_ experience.”

“Try not to hit Sawscale, Richard.” Hightower said in a low voice.

Coachwhip and I cocked the hammer back. She had a vice grip on my right hand. My left hand was free. It reached behind me and grabbed her pristine white collar.

It jerked.

Coachwhip was thrown off balance and stumbled. I pushed her.

She tumbled off the side of the building.

Sawscale screamed surprisingly loud for someone with only one functional lung. They tried to hyperjump off to catch her, but red and orange lines crossed and they tumbled. Hightower whispered in their ear, causing Sawscale to go limp.

I was in shock as I watched Coachwhip fall. She didn’t make a sound.

I felt someone behind me take my hat off and replace it with another one.

I turned to Hightower; he was wearing his trilby again. He was smiling slightly, staring off into the distance. It was like a curse had been broken. He put his hand to his forehead, teetering. Then he fainted.

I ran to Sawscale, who was on the ground, keeping pressure off their ribs by putting their weight on their elbows.

From their pocket, they produced a huge needle and unwrapped it. Then they jammed it into their chest a hand’s width from their collarbone. I heard a hissing pop and they sighed in relief. I was trying to stop the bleeding as much as I could. I said their name.

They smiled at me, trying to be comforting when they were the one that was dying.

“Love dangerously,” They tipped their hat and fell over.

I called the police.

Then I called the cleaners.

Three guesses as to who showed up first.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translator Notes:
> 
> "I want to apologize for everything. I didn’t care about either one; I just didn’t like what she was doing to you. I’d have done anything to get it to stop.”
> 
> Hightower inhaled sharply.
> 
> They choked, “You deserved…something…better.”
> 
> [...]
> 
> “I-I'm sorry.” He muttered, pushing his hands into Sawscale’s knife wound, “For everything. I'm sorry.”


	21. Midnight Train

When the police showed up to take Sawscale to the hospital, they had demanded our agent IDs, our real ones that had our real names in them. Hightower pulled his from his hat when he was revived with smelling salts. The one I had been wearing. I felt like the biggest idiot in the world.

I gave them a story about territory dispute between the three of us and refused to press charges. They left us alone.

Hightower went with Sawscale and I to the hospital, received stitches, and left without a word.

Before that, the cleaners whisked what was left of Coachwhip away. I had been expected them to levitate to the roof, but they took the elevator and stabilized Sawscale. Then they took the money I had won from the horse races. I would later check the camera feeds to see that they were never there. I told myself it was because they replaced video footage of themselves as they moved from one camera’s view to another.

In the hospital, I found out what Sawscale’s biological sex was. It seemed oddly intimate for me to know something like that. And as it turned out, getting stabbed in the chest isn’t nearly as fatal as movies make it out to be; Hightower had missed Sawscale’s heart. I wanted to think it was on purpose.

Sawscale had gone immediately into surgery. I held their hat in my hands and their coat on my shoulders as I got into a heated argument over gendered pronouns and Sawscale’s aversion to them with a doctor. I think I pissed the doctor off, because he reminded me that I couldn’t see Sawscale immediately after surgery because I wasn’t family.

 _I_ thought I was; it made me bitter.

I spent the night in the waiting room wearing their coat as a blanket and their hat on top of mine.

 

* * *

 

 

A nurse let me into Sawscale’s room after they had been moved to the recovery ward. I had bought a Spanish-English dictionary from the gift shop, it was about time I tried to learn. Sawscale could afford a private room in the hospital. They’d be able to leave in a few days. Sawscale had also refused to speak to the police, citing an accident with the knife. 

“I’m really sorry about this,” was the first thing I said when I saw them. I put their hat back on their head.

“Not your fault; it’s mine. Coachwhip had my mind all twisted up. I shouldn’t have grabbed for my pistol. Don’t even know if I was about to shoot you two or her. Speaking of which, where is our Hightower?”

“He ran off the second he could. Wish I knew where he was.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it, hoss.” I helped them sit up, “He’s a bit emotionally confused. He’s probably grief baking somewhere.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Don’t know. We don’t exactly have an established chain of command. It was more like a wagon wheel with Coachwhip in the center. Everyone’s probably found out by now and gone into hiding.”

“East Point Free Agency is taking applicants. I could refer you.”

Sawscale gave me a look through their one good eye. The doctors weren’t sure they’d ever be able to see out of their right eye again. In fact, there was talk of having it removed entirely.

“I will!”

“Bless your heart, Conway. You’re a good man.”

That meant a lot to me.

Sawscale smiled at me, “When you going to make it official between you two?”

“I beg your pardon?!” I bolted upright in my chair, feeling my face heat up.

“I still got one good eye, Rick. I ain’t blind.”

“There’s no way I’m going for a guy like that. He’s dangerous.”

They tipped their hat at me, “You’re pretty dangerous yourself. You just hide your crazy better.”

“I think it’d be best if we avoided each other.”

“Shit…,”Sawscale smiled, “You know how salt is made up of two really dangerous chemicals? Sodium and chlorine? Sodium has one valence electron and chlorine has seven. They are both so close to filling their outermost octet that they will destroy anything in their path to do so.”

High school chemistry? “I’m not following you.”

“Now, hold on,” Sawscale raised their hand, “When chlorine meets sodium, sodium gives chlorine an electron to become positively charged and chlorine becomes negatively charged because of the extra electron, so they stick together in what’s called a ionic bond.”

Sawscale laced their fingers together to demonstrate, “You get those two deadly chemicals together and they won’t hurt nobody; they’ll just be delicious.”

“If Hightower and I are sodium and chlorine, what does that make you?”

They tilted their head, considering. Finally, they said, “Carbon. Carbon’s got four valence electrons, so it’s okay being by itself, but it will bond to anything.”

They shrugged, “It’s a bit of a hussy.”

I didn’t want to hear more relationship advice through chemistry, so I asked, “I have to ask, though, how did you know Hightower was using me? And how did you guys find out about the prototypes in the first place to get a jump on us?”

“I track people for a _living_ , rookie. I was following you two since Hightower tried to take you on as a partner.” Sawscale raised their eyebrow, “You were easy to tail for a spy. Boomslang blew our cover at Coco’s, but other than that y’all never recognized me once. I was the waitress at the Pink Elephant. I spoke to y’all and y’all didn’t even notice! I won twenty bucks off of Boomslang because he said I wouldn’t do it.”

I hadn’t. They must have been pretty good at disguising themselves. I remembered the mission they gave me.

Sawscale seemed to read my mind and spoke in a perfect general American accent, the accent I heard when they set up that trap, “You know I can drop the accent if I want, right? I can switch between male and female, too, depending on what I need to do.”

They went back to the drawl, “I just choose not to most of the time. You can call me a hick all damned day; won’t make it any harder for me to kill you. Y’all yankees talk weird, anyway.”

I had to know, “Are you going to stay here?”

“I go wherever I’m told, Rick.” They weren’t looking at me.

“You could go with East Point Free Agency. You haven’t had much luck with ISHTAR bosses.”

“True.”

“What’s going to happen now that Coachwhip’s dead?”

“If we go by seniority, Agent Cottonmouth’s the leader, now. But he ain’t the leader type, so there’s a lot to sort out.”

“I think you should leave for another agency while everything's in chaos.”

“You trying to keep me around?” They smiled, blushing.

I blushed, too, “I think we could all work well together.”

“Right now, I got to go sort a lot out with ISHTAR.”

I looked away, frowning.

“Pass me my coat?” Sawscale pointed to our coats hanging up on the door.

I walked to it and handed it over. They reached in behind the breast and unpinned something shiny. They brought it to their face, smiling slightly, then turned to me, “If you don’t catch this, I’m a have to whoop your ass.”

They tossed it to me and I caught it. I looked at the badge. An ornate silver star inside a circle. The circle said, “DEPT. OF PUBLIC SAFETY TEXAS RANGERS”

“That badge means a lot to me, so you know I’ll be back for it.”

Rooke: “I’ve never seen one of these in person before.”

I didn’t even see her walk in and I jumped, almost dropping the badge.

“There ain’t that many of us, even in Texas.”

“You were a Texas Ranger?” she asked, looking it over from over my shoulder. She was holding a bouquet of marigolds and roses and a white box.

“So far as I’m concerned, I’m still a ranger.” Sawscale said defensively, “I suppose congratulations are in order. Intex ain’t got no CEO and ISHTAR is shattered.”

“Intex might not survive, but they’ve already found a new CEO, so don’t discount them yet. Even if they were, it’s all rather pyrrhic if you ask me.”

“How so?”

“It’s going to take months to recover all the data I’ve lost,” She gave me a look, “There’s a scandal that my head of security was sent to murder D’Arcy Burnham that I’m going to have to clean up…it’s a mess. Not even getting rid of Mark was this much trouble.”

“I’m sorry.” I said. Rooke took my hat off to pat me gently on the head. She put it back on my head.

“Your prototypes were probably just going to get air guns regulated federally to keep them from going to market.” Sawscale remarked, “They’d be legal until Congress got in session, and you ain’t got time to get them to market before they meet again.”

“You’re probably right. Here, the flowers are from me; Hightower said you liked marigolds.” She put the flowers on the table.

“I do.”

“And this is from Hightower.” She set the white box on Sawscale’s lap. Sawscale took the white box and opened it. Then smiled, wiping at their eyes. I looked over. It was a cake.

 _“Sorry I stabbed you! (To be fair, you were trying to kill me)”_ It said in red icing.

Sawscale let out a tiny chuckle, “Y’all need to stop making me laugh; it hurts to breathe.”

“How’s he holding up?” I asked.

“All things considered, better than I thought. He’s been baking all day. I asked if he wanted to come visit, but he didn’t think he could face you two after everything that’s happened.”

“Coward.” Sawscale said, looking away.

“Emotionally cautious.” Rooke corrected, “I came here to ask a favor out of you two.”

“What’s that?”

“Go see him separately. I know you three have a lot to talk about.”

The two of us with hats pulled them down over our eyes in almost perfect unison.

Sawscale spoke up, “Tell him to come see me first, then Conway can go see him. We got agency business to discuss anyway.”

I wasn’t looking forward to this.

“Conway, I have a job for you.” Rooke said.

“What is it?”

I got the message on my mobile just as she stepped out.

 

 

>  Rooke: Cover
> 
> Delete all evidence that you, Agent Sawscale, and Agent Hightower were in the Intex Building the night of Burnham’s murder.
> 
> Pay: $1500
> 
>  

“Spy business; you understand.” I said.

Sawscale tipped their hat. I got up and left.

 

* * *

 

I went on the mission that night.

The job was laughably easy this time, since I had done it before. I sat down in the subway car. It was late, well past last call. I looked at it and nearly dropped the mobile.

 

 

> Hightower: If You Want to Talk
> 
> Meet me at the Pink Elephant. They’ve already closed the bar, but I left the back door open.
> 
> Pay: $.01

 

I got off that train and took another. It was morning when I arrived.

I opened the door to the Pink Elephant. It always seemed to be too dark in here, no matter what time of day it was. Hightower was sitting at the piano. There was nobody else there.

He was playing a rather simple song for him. His left hand wasn’t bandaged, so I could see the stitches going through it.

His right hand kept the melody while his left struggled over counter. He’d miss a note, curse, and then start over. Both prototypes were sitting on the lid of the piano.

He looked up when he saw me, smiling. He looked so different I hardly recognized him. For a second, I thought he was actually was actually _younger_ than me.

He offered his right hand to me, introducing himself by name.

I shook it, smiling like an idiot and I introduced myself.

“Does the owner know you’re in here?”

“I did some pro bono work for him a while back, so he lets me use it when things get too hot.”

A few seconds of beautiful piano, then a missed note, then a curse. Repeat.

“How’s your hand?” I asked.

“Rooke says the nerve was cut, but not severed. It should be back to normal in about six months. Until then, I can’t feel parts of my first three fingers. I get shocks from moving them.” He started playing a familiar tune that favored the right side of the piano.

“But…it’s not permanent, is it?”

“No. I can still close my hand.” He made a fist, then opened it.

“Should you be playing a piano with an injury like that? Especially if you’re in pain?”

“No, but I can’t bowl like this and piano is the only thing I have left besides killing people with my off-hand.”

I had learned to expect that from him.

“What are you going to do until it heals?”

“Sawscale and I are going on a trip back to the reptile house where it all started.” He swallowed, “Also, my Hightower is buried nearby.”

It was a second before he spoke again, “It’s time. To move on.”

I let the gravity of the statement wash over us before I spoke, “So, now you’re _both_ leaving?”

I held Sawscale’s badge in my hand, squeezing it.

“I’m sure Sawscale will be back.” He assured me, “You two make a cute couple.”

“They said the same thing about us. What about you?”

He looked at me, incredulous, “You _want_ me to stick around? After everything?”

“We’ve _both_ been…pretty terrible to each other.” I said, sitting down at the bench in the opposite direction.

He nodded.

“I’m sorry.” I reached back and put my hand on his injured one, “I think we can both do better, though.”

He stopped playing.

His left hand was trembling slightly, “Don’t apologize. I deserved it. Though everything went swimmingly from a mission perspective.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rooke isn’t going to be able to recover those prototypes to take to market before air guns become regulated federally. Coachwhip is dead. So…I’m pretty happy with the outcome, messy as it is.”

“Messy?”

He gave me a look, “You get your stitches taken out yet?”

“No, doctors said it’d be another week. Don’t change the subject.”

He sighed and started playing with his right hand again. I was holding his left, so he’d occasionally reach over our hands to hit a note.

I helped him out, “I made things messy.”

“I wasn’t going to say that, but, yes.”

“You decided to give up on the mission to kill off all those agents because of me.”

He hit a chord and stopped, “Not just you, but…yes.”

I smiled, “You also didn’t want to kill Sawscale.”

“No, I didn’t. Besides, the entire idea was a little….”

“Insane? What’s going on between you two?”

He shrugged, “A lot. They tried seducing me right before that entire mess happened. I guess I kept it up so long because once you start on one revenge killing, you might as well keep going.”

I could’ve seen it that way if I were demented.

“Except you couldn’t kill your old partner. You two need to work something out.”

“All three of us do. But that’s not why.”

“Then why?”

He looked at me, then looked away. “I’m sorry. For getting you into all this. It was my fight and I had no business dragging you into it.”

“Hey.” I said. He turned back to me, “I’m happy with the outcome. The white worm is gone and both you and Sawscale are free. As an added bonus, Rooke decided to scrap the air gun idea in favor of something less….”

“Dangerous?” he asked. I remembered Hightower’s breakdown over what happened when I was drugged, “She has a lot of ideas for nonlethal weapons.”

“Are you still working for her?”

“She offered, then gave me two weeks paid vacation to work things out. I’m considering it.”

“You should. It’s a perfect opportunity to reform. You could go legitimate.”

“I like what I do.”

I tiled my head, “This is East Pointe; your current job is going _nowhere_.”

Hightower laughed.

“Hey,” I said his first name, aching, “Let’s stop talking about the future for a minute.”

I don’t want to talk about what happened after that.

 

* * *

 

 

Sawscale left the hospital a few days later.

The three of us were standing in a pontoon boat in the middle of Lake Marie. Behind us, at the docks, was a new (to us) pickup truck. In the back was Sawscale’s motorcycle.

There was no point to using codenames anymore, so we used each other’s real names.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll tell them to you.

It was a sunny day, but definitely sweater weather. Good thing, too; Hightower and I were wearing turtlenecks.

“Can I come with you guys? A road trip sounds fun.”

“This ain’t a vacation, Rick.” Sawscale smiled at me.

“I’ve been learning Spanish, we could badmouth people in front of them.”

 _“No.”_ Hightower pushed my hat down over my eyes, “That’s Spanish for ‘no’.”

“We’ll keep in touch through secure channels, hoss. Don’t worry.”

“And then we’ll be back, promise.” He leaned in to whisper in my ear, “I keep my promises; you know how possessive I can get.”

I blushed.

I had one last question, “Why couldn’t I join ISHTAR when I killed Boomslang?”

Hightower and Sawscale looked at each other, folding their arms and looking uncomfortable.

“Killing in self-defense isn’t enough.” Sawscale said.

“You have to betray someone.” Hightower clarified.

“Someone that would destroy _you_ to lose, so they can rebuild you. It’s like committing suicide.”

Hightower shrugged, “Rooke probably would have been your target if I wasn’t suitable.”

Sawscale laughed, “You’d have lost one _bad,_ hoss.”

I would have, “Lucky me.”

Hightower sneered, “Yeah, look at how helpful I’ve been.”

“That’s…” I started.

“Dark?” Sawscale asked.

“Insane?” Hightower offered.

“Evil.” I finished.

Sawscale leaned back, surprised, “It’s just business, hoss. ISHTAR don’t want people it can’t control.”

“Otherwise you just end up with problems. Like me.”

I had momentarily forgotten with whom I was sharing a boat. I wanted to ask who their first targets were, but I thought better of it. I looked at the Tupperware storage box filled with cement.

“Well,” Sawscale tipped their hat, “No use standing on ceremony.”

“Way too much trouble for a couple of air guns.” I remarked.

It took the three of us to lift the cement block where we’d embedded the only working prototypes of the XRECP-14 and 15 and dumped them in the lake. Also embedded was all the video evidence of such things ever existing in the first place. Like the video of me being shot with one.

“Good riddance.” I said as I watched the box sink away from sight, “Does Rooke know you’re doing this?”

Hightower shrugged, “Well, she hasn’t tried to stop me.”

They left soon after that. I went back to my normal job and I was no better off than when I started. It was like they were never here in the first place. But they were.

Fuck, I miss those guys.

 

_End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story came to me during one of my long drives to and from my job in the Texas National Guard. On my way, I always pass this rather famous reptile house called The Snake Farm Zoo in New Braunfels, a Texas landmark. In fact, it was once visited by the Ramones, who bought shirts, and Ray Wylie Hubbard wrote a catchy song about a fictitious stripper that works there. There’s also a lot of urban legends about it, but in reality it’s just a really neat, sort of sketchy, zoo/reptile house that lets you get worryingly close to the often highly dangerous attractions. 
> 
> In case you’re wondering, only the field agents in ISHTAR have codenames. I never actually came up with an acronym for ISHTAR, so go nuts.
> 
> I was originally intending to give Hightower a real name but then I decided against it. I wrote him in such a way that every time he gave out information, it’d just raise more questions. I also intentionally left Death Adder vague to build up more mystery about her and I never came up with a physical description of her. 
> 
> I knew I was going to kill off either Boomslang or Sawscale from the beginning and ended up killing Boomslang because Sawscale’s dialog was easier to write. The two of us speak the same dialect of English, after all. 
> 
> I was not expecting Sawscale to be as popular as they were. Sawscale is based off a sheriff I met in a country-western bar just outside of San Antonio. The sheriff was male, but I decided to make Sawscale genderless in tribute to “One-Eyed Charley” Parkhurst, a famous female-born coach driver that lived as a man and actually voted in California during the nineteenth century. After Parkhurst’s death revealed his biological sex in 1879, it created a public uproar. I think Sawscale would appreciate something like that.
> 
> Boomslang is based off a British intelligence soldier I met once during a military exercise and an Australian infantryman I met in Afghanistan. The Intel guy was actually Scottish and both had a hell of a lot of interesting stories about their world travels. Boomslang didn’t say ‘cheers’ nearly as much as the Scottish guy, and for that, I apologize. I imagine Boomslang being a lot nicer than he is presented in the story. I kind of regret killing him so early.
> 
> I think I should also go over who was telling the truth and who was lying.
> 
> Hightower: He implied he didn’t know the ISHTAR agents that well and he said they didn’t take seasoned agents (it’s the opposite, they don’t generally take rookies. Hightower was an exception). Hightower also lied about Diamondback being dead, both literally and metaphorically, since he still thinks of himself as Diamondback from time to time, especially in relation to the other agents. He also lied, covering for Death Adder, as to the nature of all the scars on his body to Rooke. And, of course, he lied about that night Conway was drugged. He also lied about Sawscale /trying/ to seduce him ;D.
> 
> Coachwhip: Lied about Sawscale and Boomslang not knowing what Hightower looked like, obviously. They did, however, get the wrong apartment. Once they figured out who Conway was, they thought they were already partners and tried to prove it to Coachwhip.
> 
> Sawscale: Lied and mislead Conway about the nature of the organization. They also lied about not seeing a relationship worse than Conway/Hightower since Death Adder was much worse, and their own relationship with Hightower was pretty turbulent. They lied about Hightower’s nature as being black-hearted, ostensibly to make the hit easier. Sawscale really did tell Hightower their real name prior to the story, but Hightower no longer believes it by the time he went rogue, hence that hat-eating comment. They found Hightower’s actual agent ID hidden in the sweat band of his hat, but didn’t say anything to Conway, assuming he’d already found it.
> 
> Boomslang: Honest to a fault.
> 
> All the fake names used by the agents are based off of actual spies.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this story; I'll go back and fix some editing errors. Thanks for reading.
> 
> ~Nicotinedragon


End file.
